


Forgive Yourself For Not Being Ready (Yet)

by Kulkuri



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Asexual Derek Hale, BAMF Stiles, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Chronic Pain, Derek Hale & Jordan Parrish Friendship, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek's Past Consent Issues with Kate, Disabled Derek Hale, Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Therapy, Light Angst, M/M, Monster of the Week, POV Derek Hale, Powerful Stiles Stilinski, Private Investigator Stiles Stilinski, Protective Stiles, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Is In Control Of the Demon Fox, Translator Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 22:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11278461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kulkuri/pseuds/Kulkuri
Summary: It takes Derek a couple years to catch on. He's so used to beingusedin a relationship, that it doesn't register to him that what he has with Stiles isn't merely friendship anymore. Not that he had been in a place where he could've mentally processed the idea of a relationship, even a year back, but working with his therapist has gotten him a long way from the terrified 23-year old, to a somewhat functioning adult.In the end, it takes a few full pots of coffee, a couple trips to the pharmacy, a dozen lunch dates with Stiles and his father, and a couple centuries old sorcerer for him to finally connect the dots.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sterek Reversebang 2017
> 
> Thank you for my amazing, wonderfully patient beta, [ Sydburf ](http://sydburf.tumblr.com) !
> 
> And thank you for the brilliant inspiration for [ derekhles ](http://derekhles.tumblr.com) and her beautiful [ art ](http://derekhles.tumblr.com/post/162152950131/a-sterek-reverse-bang-collab-with-the-wonderful) !
> 
> I never in a million years could've imagined I would finish a fic in less than two months and write it to be over 20K ;u; Thank _you so much_ to everyone for their support. I love every single one of you! Muah!

The bed creaks underneath when Derek shifts his weight. He darts a glance at the sleeping form splayed next to him checking that the man still slumbers. The moon filters through the cracked blinds, illuminating the sleep-soft face of Stiles. When Derek’s certain the man is still unconscious, he shifts again. His bum leg is aching from the odd position he's held for too long, and he's dying to move it. He just doesn't want to wake Stiles in the process.

 

Going slowly, he stretches his left leg with a grimace, careful not to jostle the mattress. A small groan escapes his throat, and he clamps his lips shut. Thankfully, Stiles sleeps, oblivious.

 

Derek sighs. He works the kinks out of the muscles all the way down to his calf starting at his upper thigh. He rubs circles to chase the soreness away. The skin holds a long, thick scar. It runs from the tip of his hip down to his knee. It's accompanied by dozen of other, smaller, less horrid looking disfigurements on the skin. Gnarly, furrowed lines of scar tissue, faint maroon lines against his usual skin tone. The scarred wound  is cut deep, the once wide open wound searing the tendons and ripping the muscle, until the wicked claws shattered the bone on impact.

 

He remembers that night vividly. Like many others, the memory is planted firmly in his brain, contributing bits and pieces into his nightmares. Sometimes, when the bone throbs and the whole leg cramps, he wishes that the kelpie had just ripped the damned thing off. Instead, he was left with a useless limb that only works 30 percent of the time.

 

And that's on days that he does his stretches properly and obediently stays away from the jogging trails that go long and deep into the preserve.

 

The muscles burn unpleasantly under his rough hands. He does loops, leg twitching angrily, his touch maybe a little bit too forceful. But he's been awake for the past two days, the weather having taken a turn to cold, making sleep the last thing on his mind when his whole body throbbed with the rhythm of the beat of his heart. Even his hip had protested in discomfort. The blades of bones had cracked and dislocated, almost ripped to threads by the forceful strength of a kelpie.

 

The peaceful atmosphere that had blanketed Beacon Hills for a moment had lured Derek into false sense of security. He certainly hadn’t anticipated running into a grieving kelpie, their dead mate in one of the older hunter traps that must’ve gone unnoticed by Chris when Stiles had demanded every single trap to be removed from the preserve. The kelpie, insane in their loss, had blindly attacked Derek to protect their partner, even when both of them knew the small humanoid had died the instant the steel claws of the trap had bitten them almost in half.

 

Lupita, the pod's Queen, after finding out what her friend had done in their insanity, had successfully operated Derek's leg with the help of her pod, barely in time to stop him from bleeding to death. She had been a surgeon in her past life she explained as she numbed the lower half of his body with her venom. Derek, delirious with pain and blood loss, could do nothing but nod and trust her to salvage what was left to salvage and not kill him outright.

 

She hadn't. She saved his life, mended his leg as well as she could, and offered a pact that should Derek need it, her pod was in his favour and would come at the first call.

 

The only thing he's truly _glad_ about when it comes to this whole ordeal is that by severing his leg, he saved Parrish's life. They had struck up a friendship afterwards, first from guilt on the Phoenix's side and then because they genuinely enjoyed each other's company. Parrish had an impeccable taste in books.

 

And Derek starved after long piece of good fiction.

 

Also, being immobile for a long time after his surgery, _Stiles_ of all people had taken it his life's mission to help Derek back to his feet. Spending time together resulted in the two of them becoming close friends, and by now, Stiles doesn’t hesitate in crashing Derek's bed when he feels like it.

 

It had taken a long time though. Months and months of arguing and Derek flinching away, furiously washing his bed sheets to get the smell of Stiles out of them, out of his den. Even when Stiles has mostly smelled like safety and ally, Derek’s den was his and _only_ his, making Stiles’ scent in it almost unbearable. But Stiles is very good at being patient when the situation calls for it.

 

And that patience has been rewarded handsomely time and time again.

 

Getting Stiles' friendship was like nothing he could've imagined. The man was fierce and loyal, always ready to help, even if he bitched about it. Stiles' taste in music and movies was rather eccentric, but that Derek already knew way before. It showed in his comic book t-shirts and endless supply of flannel shirts. In his dark humor, his Red Bull Wikipedia binges, the way he phrased things.

 

He reminded Derek a lot of young Peter, actually. Sarcastic, cunning. Mischievous, smart in ways Derek can't even begin to comprehend. Both men had their brains fire in dozen different cylinders at the same time, when it took Derek a couple minutes to even compile a sentence uncomplicated enough to unfold his thoughts but get his point across with minimal explaining.

 

And what more was that both Peter and Stiles were as easily angered as they were soothed, forgiving in due time but never forgetting.

 

''Derek?''

 

Realizing he'd zoned out, he turns to see Stiles blinking blearily up at him. He cringes, apologizing softly.

 

''Sorry,'' he murmurs. ''Did I wake you?''

 

''Nah,'' Stiles grunts, and his eyes fall back shut. ''Your leg bothering you again?''

 

He massages the quivering limb and shrugs amiably. ''Not much.''

 

Stiles sighs, squinting one eye open. ''Just enough to keep you up at all hours of the night, huh?''

 

He shrugs again. Even before gaining the control of the demon fox's powers, Stiles had been frustratingly perceptive. His gaze sharp and calculating. But now, with the actual supernatural power to back his intuition, Stiles had gained even more strength, making Derek feel frayed open whenever under his scrutiny. Stiles could _feel_ the mood of the room, much like a werewolf's nose could pick up chemosignals. Stiles just saw them in colours, felt them in the shifts of air.

 

Apparently, sadness blankets the room heavily, while happiness tingles in the tip of his fingers. Go figure.

 

Even more so when Stiles' eyes started glowing with that deep sap orange, letting the fox's powers to the surface, did Derek feel like the gaze could see far into the dusted, hidden parts of him. The hurt, the anger, the _loneliness_. He hated it.

 

''It's okay to ask for help when you're hurting,'' Stiles grumps. It's an argument they've had at least a dozen times in the past, both of them incredibly tired of it.

 

And it's a nice sentiment, but after the accident, the pain has never really ceased to begin with. It just ebbs and flows, increasing and decreasing in intensity. If he walks or exercises too much, the pain becomes a throb that burns, licking against the muscle and bone like real flames. If he stays still too long the leg cramps, becoming stiff and awkward, which then has the pain forming into an ache that sends sharp jolts alike to electricity all the way up to his spine with every movement. Stretching and rubbing the limb seems to alleviate the hurt a little bit, and usually a cold wrap around his thigh helps him sleep through the night.

 

Except now of course. Damn weather.

 

Stiles sits up with a slightly annoyed huff. He's clad in his boxer briefs and nothing else, much like Derek. The small apartment Derek rented a couple years back is drafty with winter approaching. And where Derek had always run hot with his werewolf metabolism, Stiles, in contrast, had always felt cool to the touch. When the Nogitsune had repossessed Stiles, the cold of the demon's spirit forcing its way into his human system, his normal body temperature had never returned. Even when Stiles outmaneuvered the demon and locked it inside himself, gaining control of its powers.

 

By now, Derek is familiar with ice cold feet seeking warmth from his thighs, even if Stiles doesn't actually feel the cold. Doesn't mind the draft, can't even catch a flu as he is now.

 

''Well?'' Stiles raises his eyebrows.

 

''Well what?''

 

''Aren't you gonna let me work these magic fingers on you?'' The man wiggles his digits and winks. The grin he's wearing is lopsided and tired, but genuine.

 

Knowing resistance is futile, he stiffly moves so that his bad thigh is on Stiles' lap, slightly bent, the other reclining so it's pressed against Stiles' back, Stiles sitting in the vee of his legs. When the man digs into the knots of his muscles, Derek goes limp with relief. Dragging a pillow under his head, he slumps against the bed, groaning weakly when Stiles hits a painful spot.

 

''Jesus,'' Stiles mutters. ''How have you walked anywhere with this jumbled mess? It's not usually this bad.''

 

''Helped Walsh,'' he grunts. ''Her baby bump makes it hard for her to move some of the furniture.''

 

''Oh my God, you blithering idiot,'' Stiles scolds fondly. ''You're really just a gigantic softie. You should learn to say no sometimes. Would do wonders for your health.''

 

''Shut up, Stiles,'' he grumbles feebly.

 

''Nope. You'll listen to my advice if you know what's good for you,'' the man grins sharply. ''Besides, you know I'm right. When have I ever not been right? Even when I was a teenager I was usually the one with the most solid plan, the most knowledge of the bestiary and the absolute best research skills. Do you know how many hours I have spent on google just to learn the best way to massage a leg that has its muscles torn to hell? I can tell you. Many, many hours on google. And who has the most pain relieving touch?''

 

''Uh huh,'' Derek grunts, his eyes shut. ''Just keep those magic fingers moving and I'll be able to tell you.''

 

Stiles snorts. ''Sneaky.''

 

''What was it that you said? Genius. That's what it is.''

 

''Oh my God, you're such a dork,'' Stiles laughs, crinkly eyed and pleased. If there's one thing Derek never gets tired of reveling in, it's making Stiles' scent soar with that honey-comb smell he associates with happiness. It's lovely, and it makes his heart stutter in joy.

 

Stiles digs his thumb against the back of Derek's thigh, circling the knobs there. The quiet of the night feels serene, peaceful, with Stiles. The dark corners of the room aren't suppressing, just teasing with their dancing. The pale moonlight a comfort when it pools around them. The rhythm of Stiles' heart beats slowly, gently reassuring that everything's alright.

 

Suddenly, a flare of pain waves over him, a piercing stab that leaves him almost breathless. Derek jolts to a sitting position, grabbing the bad leg near his groin, digging his nails into the skin. Stiles' hands halt, eyes darting to assess Derek's face and he looks concerned.

 

''Derek?''

 

''Give me a minute,'' he grits out, focusing on taking deep breaths. Cold sweat breaks onto his skin, chest tightening. His fangs drop involuntarily, and he growls in frustration.

 

''Derek?''

 

He shakes his head, digging his own digits into the trembling muscle, massaging it. Something's twisted, out of place, and he has to go through the whole thigh to find it. He's meticulous about it, going inch by inch. Stiles starts mimicking his actions hesitantly, starting from his knee to meet Derek halfway up. The pain doesn't change, just stays as a constant stabbing that feels like it drills to the bone, into the marrow and through. The thing is unlike anything he's felt so far, and it came from so far left field Derek didn't even know to anticipate it.

 

He realizes his whole body has locked into the rictus of the cramp, every line tense and sharp. It spreads throughout the leg, up onto his hips, and he hisses when the desperation makes his hands shake. He tries to relax, to ease his shoulders down and unclench his stomach muscles in a vain hope of getting the bad thigh to stop burning. He grits his teeth, almost biting his tongue in half in an attempt to keep the pained howl in that he wants to release. Instead, he growls deep in his chest, releasing some of the agonizing tension.

 

It's gradual, and it takes closer to fifteen minutes to get the fiery hurt massaged out of the limb. When it does, the licking flames receding back to the normal ache that stays in the background as long as he doesn't focus on it, he slumps back down the bed with a shuddering breath. He almost sobs in relief. He hasn't been this close to tears in years, yet they prick against his eyelids when he squeezes them shut.

 

Stiles has stayed silent the whole time, his own posture tense with worry. Derek wants to reassure him that he's okay, that he'll be alright now, but he doesn't find his voice. Something thick has clogged his throat, and he's just so, so exhausted.

 

''I'm gonna go get the ice pack,'' Stiles murmurs lowly, gently easing himself from underneath Derek's leg. It doesn't take him long to come back, and Derek tries to get himself sorted before that.

 

The man carefully bandages one layer of the white roll of fabric, lifting the hem of Derek's boxer briefs up for broader access, placing the ice pack on top. Then he does a new wrap around the ice to make it stay on still throughout the rest of the night, taping the thing in place. When he's done, he checks the tapes one more time. The look in his eyes is fragile, so sad that it makes Derek want to apologize. Then Stiles picks his own pillow, bending Derek's leg before stuffing the thing underneath it, supporting the leg.

 

''Are you okay?'' Stiles whispers, crawling up to lay next to him.

 

His hands are still shaking, as are his shuddered breaths. He thinks about lying again, about offering platitudes, reassurances that he'll be fine. (Like Stiles wouldn't immediately see through his act.) But the exhaustion that's been following him for days, the pain that's bothering him a lot more than usual, has him wrecked and vulnerable. He shakes his head.

 

Stiles makes a pained sound, and his strong and sure arms wrap around Derek's chest. ''I'm so sorry,'' the man whispers into the skin of Derek's neck. His hands come up to gently caress the scruff of Derek's jaw, eyes wet with worry.

 

Derek sighs, moving his gaze to the ceiling to count the tiles he's counted a million times before, avoiding Stiles' eyes. ''It's okay,'' he says. ''It could be a lot worse.''

 

''Oh Jesus, don’t even - ‘’ Stiles says thickly. ‘’Don’t even _joke_ about that.’’

 

The grief and regret, the fury at his own inability to help Derek that's pouring off of Stiles in waves smells like pine needles in the forest, bitter and fresh. He brings his arms to mimic Stiles' position, embracing the spark and smushing the man's face fully against his neck.

 

He rubs comforting circles on Stiles' back, letting him mumble angry curses for the both of them. And when Stiles is done, tired and voice rough, Derek murmurs soft nothings into Stiles' hair, keeping his hand in motion.

 

They fall into an exhausted slumber not thirty minutes after. Stiles doesn't let go of him for the rest of the night. It makes Derek feel safe, having Stiles wrapped around his frame protectively. One of Stiles' hands rests against Derek's thigh, the chill of it seeping into the burning limb. He doesn't wake once, not before the birds start chirping with the morning dew, and not before the sun is already high in the sky.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A few days later finds Derek sitting in the yard of his apartment complex. Most of the rest of the residents are older people that have difficulty getting out and about by themselves, but still mobile enough to stay at home. The retirement home of Beacon Hills is rather overcrowded, so more and more patients are encouraged to stay at home with an itinerant nurse coming by once or thrice a day.

 

The sun shines onto his face as Anya, his next door neighbor, a lovely woman who still rocks her afro even after hitting a good solid ninety, chatters next to him. The complex has lowered steps that make it easier for disabled people to move. Anya's legs are rather shaky though, and the walker she has has jammed too many times for Derek to count, so he helps her out whenever he can and the weather is good.

 

The people here know that Derek's a man of few chosen words, but it doesn't seem to bother them. He knows they call him a gentle giant behind his back, even though he's far from the shape and mass he was when he was an Alpha. Still, he likes that people find him gentle looking rather than the grumpy, idiot, scary thug that he's been called before.

 

Anya, with her friends, all usually like that Derek is quiet. It makes him a good listener. He knows to nod on certain points of the story, ask questions to elaborate key points if someone forgets to mention something, and he's all around well liked in his neighborhood. It's an odd feeling.

 

He spots Stiles before the man sees him, but he lets Stiles jog into the apartment to check first. He doesn't like to yell and rising too fast would, worst case scenario, make his leg cramp. And ruin the rest of his day. Instead, he grabs his phone from his pocket and shoots a text.

 

Stiles comes back a couple minutes later, cheeks flushed and grinning. Anya greets him enthusiastically, patting the wooden bench next to her. Derek gives him an amused look when Stiles huffs and sits down.

 

Knowing that Stiles has the conversation in control for now, he closes his eyes and relaxes. The warm sun feels good against his skin and his bum leg is cooperating rather well today. He lightly dozes off for a couple ten minutes, letting the easy conversation wash over him.

 

He blinks awake to Stiles poking at his cheek, a soft smile playing on his lips. ''Come on, big guy. We got a lunch date.''

 

Derek grunts. ''With who?''

 

''My dad,'' Stiles answers, and helps Derek on his feet.

 

 

 

Surprisingly, Stiles actually lets the sheriff take a red meat burger, but badgers John into taking a side order of salad instead of fries. When Stiles opens his mouth to tell Derek the same, he growls at Stiles before he can utter a single word.

 

Stiles surrenders with a smirk.

 

All three sit down in a booth near a window, the sheriff falling into deep discussion with Stiles. Derek’s heard snippets of their recent case. It’s given a lot of headache to the police department, and even John has gone a few nights without sleep, exhaustion evident in his eyes.

 

The Beacon Hills cemetery is the most recent crime scene. Grave after grave has been dug open, coffins dragged to the surface and the deceased stolen from them. Much to everyone’s confusion, only the corpses buried within the past four months have been disturbed, and of those only the ones with a coffin. How the criminal knew which graves to open, nobody has no idea.

 

Which was why John and Parrish had decided to finally consult Stiles.

 

Since his debut in college as a supernatural investigator, a side job to his folklore studies, Stiles has taken up consulting police departments and private people in the know of supernatural in their cases of crime. His bestiary, already overflowing with material before he left for college, had been neatly reinvented and put into color coded columns when Derek saw it last.

 

Sometimes, when he leafs through the bestiary, he thinks that perhaps the change had been the same in Stiles' head. The strings of threats and nightmares and trauma, slowly healing over his years in college, structuring him, making Stiles' thoughts and emotions finally fall neatly into place. From chaos to calm order.

 

''I just don't understand,'' John says, frustration creeping into his voice, ''The security cameras on the plot haven't caught any activity on the nights the bodies have disappeared. The only entrances and exits are monitored carefully and the stone wall surrounding the cemetery is more than six feet tall.''

 

Stiles chews thoughtfully on his straw for a moment before looking up at Derek. ''Zombies?''

 

Derek snorts and shakes his head. ''Zombies don't exist.''

 

Looking like he's amused despite himself, John sighs. ''The coffins have been unfurled from the outside. A presumed, oh God, am I really saying this, _zombie_ would have probably clawed their way out, leaving scratches on the lid at least. Or any kind of evidence that they’ve clawed their way out. And even then, the presumed undead would then have to grow wings on their backs or they wouldn't have been able to get out unnoticed.''

 

''RedBull gives you wings,'' Stiles singsongs, and John rolls his eyes to heavenward, praying for patience.

 

''Stiles,'' Derek murmurs in a low, exasperated warning.

 

Stiles sobers, wincing slightly as he takes in the look on his father’s face. ‘’Don’t worry dad,’’ he says, ‘’I’m looking into it. I’ve got at least a handful of suspects just from the police files alone, but after I inspect the crime scenes, I’ll have more clues. I just need a little time to leaf through my bestiary and chat with a couple contacts. It’ll be fine.’’

 

‘’I trust you,’’ John says. ‘’Just be careful, alright?’’

 

Stiles looks mock offended. ‘’I’m always careful!’’

 

‘’No, you're not,’’ Derek says, and feels immensely pleased when John echoes the sentiment. The older Stilinski shoots him an appreciative grin. Stiles scowls at them and purses his lips, clearly unamused at this camaraderie between his father and Derek at his own detriment.

 

Food derails further conversation. Derek finds that he's actually starving, and barely pays any attention to Stiles or his father or their rather morbid dinner table discussion. He's been indoors far too long, immersed in his current project. He’s translating a children’s book from Spanish. The author has gathered tiny stories from all across the globe and made it into a huge LGBT friendly novel with added artwork. Stiles, thankfully, has been keeping his fridge stocked, though sometimes he just forgets to migrate to the kitchen, hunger not on the top of his list when he’s writing.

 

In the middle of finishing his plate though, a group of white men catch his eye. They're rowdy and irritating, unconcerned of the other diners and making a scene of themselves as they enter. They’re all wearing Beacon Heights College jerseys, their sportbags taking all the space around their table where they lug them. At least ten of them hog places on the line, a couple sitting down with the group’s stuff.

 

Stiles throws the group a couple of irritated glares while John eats serenely, as if completely unconcerned of the chaos. Derek finds himself slightly amused by the situation.

 

His amusement fades though, when he suddenly feels a pair of eyes on him. _Preying_ on him. Like a predator hunting, circling their oblivious victim. Every single hair on his neck raises as he freezes. As subtly as he can, he scans the diner. It’s only half-packed, plenty of tables empty. It’s nearing the end of lunchtime so the crowd inside has visibly thinned, although the streets still hold enough to cram the traffic.

 

The diners are mostly immersed in their food or conversation, and nobody seems to be directing their gaze towards Derek. Even the group of college jocks seem to have settled down, nobody throwing even the cursory glance around them.

 

But the feeling of being stared at doesn’t give. Stiles seems indifferent, shoving more curly fries into his mouth and listens intently at John. Derek frowns at that. If Stiles doesn’t feel anything off in his surroundings. . .

 

Derek whips his head to look out the window, the streets thick with people. He can hear his own heart starting to beat in frenzy, anxiety flooding his system. A couple people are looking _towards_ the diner, but not directly at _Derek_. He’s starting to feel a little crazy with it. He doesn’t like this helpless feeling of being preyed on, least of all when he can’t even see his opponent. Stiles places his hand on John’s hand to quiet him and turns to Derek, finally picking up on his mood.

 

‘’Derek? You okay dude?’’

 

His ears are starting to ring and Stiles’ voice seems muffled and far away, barely registering to Derek at all. Somehow the warm sun now feels thick and suffocating, sweat clinging to his temples. He frantically searches the crowd,  eyes switching from person to person. He can almost feel it, the closeness of the predator, of their hungry gaze. He’s certain he’s just about to catch whoever is staring at him, pinpoint the source, see just exactly who it is that’s pinning their focus on him, the buzz in his ears almost deafening -

 

The bell of the diner’s door rings -

 

The spell breaks. The chatter of people come back, his heartbeat slowing, the tinnitus fading. He takes a shaky breath, turning away from the window to look into the worried faces of the Stilinskis. He startles to find that Stiles has placed his hand on Derek’s neck, slowly rubbing it, despite it probably feeling wet with Derek’s sweat.

 

‘’You okay?’’ Stiles asks again.

 

‘’Yeah,’’ he rasps. ‘’I - It was,’’ he tries, glancing back and forth between the window and the table. Suddenly he feels a little foolish. Maybe he’s just. . . A little strung up. Imagining things. Maybe the sun had warmed his head a little too much and he got dizzy. He shakes his head.

 

‘’It was nothing,’’ he ends up saying. Stiles frowns, not looking too convinced, but doesn’t pry, thankfully. Instead, he drops his hand from Derek’s neck, leaving him slightly off kilter.

 

‘’We’re about ready to head out since dad’s lunchtime is almost over. Are you gonna finish up or?’’

 

Derek shakes his head again. His plate’s almost finished anyway and all _that_ just now really spoiled his appetite.

 

When they leave, he takes one more look towards the diner crowd and the people on the streets, but the feeling of being watched has vanished, and he doesn’t find anyone suspicious.

 

He spends the rest of the day high on alert, and nearly brains himself on a kitchen cabinet when he spaces off, startling at the sound of his dishwasher gurgling when it lets out the water.

 

He sleeps poorly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

A couple mornings later, Derek reads the headlines of a news site, sighing heavily. Another grave has been dug up the night before. The article describing the situation is vague, barely grasping at the facts. The journalist clearly has a less than favorable opinion on Beacon Hills’ police force though. The rather crass way the man jabs at the law enforcement’s inefficiency irks Derek. He knows Stiles’ father and Parrish and the whole force does their utmost best at doing their job.

 

Derek himself has been at the mercy of wrongful detainment, and knows how slow the force sometimes works due to their lack of funding and inability to hire new employees. There has also been a lack of people applying for Beacon Hills because of the multiple murders the town faces annually. Unsurprisingly, that does put a slight damper in the applicant rate.

 

If he had a good old fashioned newspaper, he would’ve crumpled it into a tiny ball and practiced throwing hoops with it on the trash bin.

 

Alas, he doesn’t have one, and really doesn’t want to crack his phone and invest in his fifth one within three years. He may or may not have had some anger management issues when he re-learned to use the muscles of his lower body, mostly leading to taking his frustration out on objects closest to him at the time.

 

He taps away from the site and moodily goes back to his ebook. It’s one Parrish had suggested. It’s a rather sad choice from him, one Derek hadn’t expected. Usually Parrish favors a lot happier pieces, with romance and murders. Derek doesn’t much care for romance nor murders, but detective fictions are something he scarfs down fast.

 

The book he’s currently reading is Kira Kira by Cynthia Kadohata. The cover reminded him of Kira actually, not just because of the name but the two girls that are in the field of the cover. But as he reads further into the book, he wishes Kira a lot happier ending.

 

He’ll never admit that he relates to the main character’s sadness and confusion way too well for it not to be painful.

 

_‘The road was empty, like so many roads we had driven on in my life. The highways in Southern Georgia were famous for how dark they were, no light anywhere-no farm lights or streetlights or town lights. We passed a swamp, and I locked the door. The biggest swamp in Georgia was across the state. It was called Okefenokee Swamp, which means ‘’Land of Trembling Earth’’ in Seminole._

 

_Our local swamp was called Brenda swamp, named after a girl who died there way back before I was born. Her ghost lived in the swamp. It was looking for her parents. I stared out into the darkness, saw the moss hang like drool from the pines. When the wind blew, the swamp did seem to tremble._

 

_How I would hate to wander in that murky water for the rest of eternity looking for my parents! I looked over my at my mother - ‘_

 

Parrish’s ID pops onto the screen and Derek carefully picks up his phone from the table and taps answer.

 

‘’Hale.’’

 

_‘’Hey man, it’s Jordan.’’_

 

‘’Hey.’’

 

 _‘’I hope you’re not doing anything right now,’’_ Jordan begins ominously, _‘’because me and John we’re kind of hoping you could come up to the station for a bit.’_ ’

 

‘’Am I being charged with something?’’

 

Parrish snorts. _‘’For your terrible taste in muscle cars maybe. Nah man, we just need your advice on something. How fast are you able to get yourself here?’’_

 

Holding his phone between his ear and shoulder, Derek pours the rest of his tea into a thermos. ‘’Twenty minutes.’’

 

_‘’Thanks. Sorry for bothering you so early in the morning.’’_

 

Derek shakes his head even if Parrish doesn't see it. Jordan knows how little Derek actually sleeps, his REM-cycle irregular and constantly changing, factors that are too many to list ever altering it. Though Derek tends to wake early, he does sleep in if he’s able. Jordan wouldn’t have called if there wasn’t something severe going on.

 

‘’I’ll see you soon,’’ Derek replies instead of verbally acknowledging the apology, and Jordan says his goodbye. Derek grabs his keys and wallet. He checks the kitchen one more time, slightly taken aback when he realizes that he’s made coffee too. Only Stiles drinks it in Derek’s household. Usually he only makes it when the man is present and Stiles hasn’t been to the apartment in two days. He’s done this a couple times now, grinding the beans and making the coffee even when Stiles hasn’t stayed over. He stares blankly at the half pot steaming against the sunlight before flicking the machine off.

 

Intellectually he knows that Stiles wasn’t sleeping over. As he locks the door to his apartment and jogs to his car, he ponders about it. It had felt. . . Right. Making the coffee. He hadn’t really thought about it, just went with the motions. He’s done so many times in the past, letting Stiles snooze as long as he can and then leap out of the bed in frenzy with coffee and breakfast ready.

 

Why his brain thought it was a good idea to make the coffee without Stiles even gracing Derek with his presence is beyond him.

 

He slams the car door shut and turns the key, letting his car purr to life. He can puzzle over this later.

 

 

 

 

 

Jordan is in front of the station waiting when Derek pulls on the curb. The young Phoenix’s face is unusually somber as he leads Derek through the entrance and into the sheriff’s office. John is already present, his face harrowed with fatigue. His expression softens when he sees the two of them coming in.

 

‘’Derek,’’ John greets him warmly, ‘’Glad you could make it.’’

 

‘’Of course,’’ Derek says, and sits down where Parrish points him.

 

‘’Coffee?’’ John asks, and Derek shakes his head, lifting his hand to show his own thermos.

 

‘’Derek doesn’t drink coffee, sir,’’ Parrish pipes up. ‘’He’s a tea snob.’’

 

The sheriff shakes his head. ‘’God only knows how you get along with Stiles then. Kid can down three pots a day and still grab himself an energy drink, but tea he won’t touch with a long stick.’’

 

‘’As long as he leaves some sugar for me we get along just fine,’’ Derek says mildly.

 

‘’Good man,’’ John says, mouth stretching in a fond smile. Then he closes his eyes and sighs deep and heavy, amusement disappearing from his face.

 

‘’I guess we should discuss about the fact that I called you here.’’

 

Derek nods. Parrish settles himself near the window, unease clear in the odds of his body language.

 

‘’You’re aware of the mayhem and slight scandal the grave digging altercation has generated in our community, I presume.’’

 

Playing with the thermos, Derek says, ‘’What little I’ve heard from Stiles and you, and what the newspaper has written. I don’t have the more solid details.’’ _Because Stiles doesn’t want me to hear or see the horror and gore,_ he doesn’t say, but by the look which John throws him, the man knows well enough. Stiles might have even said something along those lines to his father.

 

John waves this away. ‘’The small details aren’t important right now. The bigger picture is. You know that the graves disturbed have only been the ones that have been recently buried. And only ones with coffins. No urns with ashes have been touched. Now we don’t know why or how the culprit knew that, or why they are digging up the deceased in the first place, but we know that it has only happened in Beacon Hills and only within the recent weeks.’’

 

John sucks in a breath and then releases it slowly. ‘’Beacon Hills isn’t a big town. Statistically speaking not a lot of people die here and not too often. At least not civilians. I’m putting aside the supernatural deaths because those are a complete different margin. Over 85 percent of those deaths don’t end up in the town’s cemetery. We have more people missing and _presumed_ dead, than actual dead people.’’

 

‘’Which basically means that the cemetery is running out of fresh corpses,’’ Derek finishes for him, and John nods his agreement.

 

‘’We already _have_ run out. Mrs. Johnson was the last one from the night before,’’ Parrish says.

 

Derek blinks. ‘’So what then?’’

 

‘’Well, that’s what we asked. We still don’t know who’s behind the whole thing, or why they’re taking the corpses with them. Stiles has been looking into it, but so far he has only mumbled something about _ghouls_ and _inaccurate facts_ and _doesn’t fit the description._ Se we were at a loss as to where to start - ‘’

 

‘’Until this morning,’’ Parrish says. John rubs his face.

 

‘’There has been a murder,’’ the Phoenix continues, when it seems the sheriff won’t. ‘’A young college student. Jenkins Lawson. Twenty two. Plays football in Beacon Heights college, weighs over 250 pounds and teeters on six foot tall. So not an easy target to take down or make vanish. The witnesses told us that he went out for a smoke when they were hanging out downtown in the Light Bulb pub and after twenty minutes of being gone, his friends went out to look for him. All they found was a smashed iphone of Lawson’s and enough blood to presume that if he left that alley alive, he most likely isn’t anymore.’’

 

‘’..So, what do you want me to do?’’ Derek hedges. This all sounds a lot more like Stiles’ job. To connect dots and shreds of evidence to each other.

 

‘’Bluntly put, we’d like you to sniff around a bit. See if the culprit on both sites is the same.’’

 

Derek blinks. ‘’They don’t seem at all related.’’

 

‘’Officially? No. They aren’t. The reports aren’t connected. One is desecrating and destroying multiple grave sites and the other a missing person’s. And if I didn’t trust Parrish 100%, they still _would be_ different cases.’’

 

Derek turns his gaze to Jordan and quirks his brow in question. Parrish sighs.

 

‘’You know as well as I do that I’m still not fully sure of what I’m capable of. In past supernatural cases, if the suspect has been the same even if the acts had been different, I get this. . . Ache. In the back of my skull. It’s not painful per se, and it differentiates between cases, although I have no idea why. And now, with the two seemingly completely unrelated cases, I get the same ache that I’ve only had with related ones. It’s not exact science, but I can’t help the gut feeling I have. Or head feeling, whatever you want to call this.”

 

Flipping the lid open of his thermos, Derek takes a small sip. He considers all of the information. It’s a pretty absurd way to start an inner investigation between cases, but he trusts Parrish. There’s something about the Phoenix and his instincts that have never led Derek wrong before and if all he has to do is lend them his heightened sense of smell, then so be it.

 

‘’Alright. I can do that,’’ he concedes.

 

‘’Thanks man,’’ Parrish says, offering him a smile. ‘’It won’t help us through the official channels, but it’ll give us an inclination of whether or not this really is the deeds of a rampant super. Then we’ll at least know to defer most of the legwork to me and Stiles rather than the rookies not in the know.’’

 

‘’Sounds like a plan to me.’’ The force can’t lose any more employees. ‘’Are we heading out right away?’’

 

‘’If you can, yeah,’’ Parrish says. Derek stands up at that, checking his pockets for his keys.

 

‘’And I know you know this without me mentioning it separately but all of this has been told to you in confidence. You understand that, right, son?’’ John says.

 

‘’Yes sir,’’ Derek says. ‘’I’m aware of my legal confidentiality obligations.’’

 

John comes around his desk and claps him on the shoulder. ‘’I’m glad to hear it. Now, if you see the rascal I call my son, please pass on the message that his father would like to see his face sometime this week, and that dinner at my house is served at seven should a night suit him.’’ He pauses and then looks at Derek with an unfathomable look that Derek can’t really interpret, and says, ‘’That means you too, Derek. I want to see both of you.’’

 

A little stunned, Derek can only nod. He usually goes along to these dinners because _Stiles_ asks him to. In fact, whenever he tries to refuse it’s because he honestly didn’t think that John wanted him there. He just thought he was an extension of Stiles’ kindness, and that the sheriff actually just wanted to see his son. Not that John ever acted that way or gave any inclination that he didn’t care for Derek’s presence in the negative way. Still, he can’t help shake the feeling.

 

He blinks at the sheriff, and then he says, ‘’Stiles is more of a hoodlum than a rascal though.’’

 

John’s laughter follows him all the way to the patrol car where Parrish leads him to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The car ride is decent. Parrish is one of those drivers that handles the clutch as smoothly as a second limb. The engine purrs under the man’s hands and Derek feels himself relax. Jordan taps his finger against the steering wheel with the rhythm of the radio, navigating through the rush of the early morning traffic.

 

He spots the familiar green sign an intersection over, and a thought occurs to him.

 

‘’Hey,’’ he says, and Jordan glances over at him. ‘’Can we stop by the pharmacy when we get back? I need to pick up Stiles’ meds.’’

 

‘’Sure,’’ Jordan says, amused. ‘’Stiles running you around to do the shoppings while he works?’’

 

Shaking his head, Derek says, ‘’Adderall he remembers but the shampoo and oils prescribed for his psoriasis he tends to forget. If he doesn’t oil his scalp, it starts bleeding after a three-four days.’’

 

Jordan winces. ‘’I’ve seen it. Last summer when he buzzed his head. It looks really painful.’’

 

Derek slumps against the seat. ‘’It’s not painful per se. The itching can get pretty bad though.’’

 

‘’Mm,’’ Jordan agrees. ‘’You pick his meds up often?’’ He ventures. Derek shrugs.

 

‘’Most of the time,’’ he confirms. Jordan doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he stays quiet. There’s something in his scent though, that Derek can’t quite parse if it’s genuine amusement or slightly mocking delight. He decides he doesn’t really care.

 

They round to the graveyard ten minutes later, easily parking in the near empty lot.

 

‘’Alright,’’ the Phoenix says, sliding out of the vehicle and shading his face with his hand against the sunlight. ‘’The plan is mostly to just sniff around a little bit, see if you can catch a scent of the perpetrator. Two scenarios; we catch a scent, match the same scent on the other crime scene, and we’ll be able to strongly suspect supernatural involvement. Scenario two, we catch a scent here but different one than at the pub, case closed, no further investigation between these incidents will be conducted.’’

 

‘’Sounds a little too easy.’’

 

Jordan shrugs. ‘’It’s all we can go on for now. You okay to do this?’’

 

‘’Despite what Stiles has said to all of you,’’ Derek says, hands crossing over his chest as he leans against the side of the car, ‘’I’m not actually grossed out or intimidated or whatever he’s been feeding to you of any of this. I’ve _killed_ before. I don’t need sheltering.’’

 

‘’You want my opinion?’’

 

Derek raises an eyebrow.

 

‘’It’s not about sheltering you or thinking you’re incapable of handling whatever gore the next murder brings. I think it’s Stiles genuinely trying to preserve your happiness by steering you away from all the darker stuff that goes on around here. I’m pretty sure in his mind you’ve had your fair share of disastrous things happen to you and doesn’t want that saga to continue.’’

 

Huffing, Derek nods. ‘’I think we’ve all had more than enough of terrible things happening.’’

 

 _‘’That_ ,’’ Jordan says empathetically, heading to the rusted entrance of the graveyard, ‘’I can agree with.’’

 

The disturbed gravesites chill Derek to the bone. He gently runs his fingertips over a few gravestones, tracing the curves of names and dates of the deceased buried underneath. There are traces of _something_ in the air, in the ground that’s been dug. It doesn’t smell human Derek doesn’t think, but he can’t identify what it could be instead. He subtly scents the plots, finding the same sort of bitter, vinegary smell permeating them, the undercurrent of rot everywhere. Surprisingly though, it’s not the sort of rot that clings to a decomposing corpse. He’s not sure how he knows the difference but the subtle change is there.

 

Jordan hovers in the background, his young face creased with worry. Derek looks over at him and nods.

 

‘’It’s definitely not anything mundane.’’

 

The Phoenix slumps in defeat. ‘’I hate it when I’m right.’’

 

Derek comes to him, wiping his hands. ‘’Let’s go check out the pub. Maybe the scents are different after all.’’

 

‘’I doubt it,’’ Jordan says, ‘’but we can go see if my instincts are correct. And then I can cash out that beer we bet on with the sheriff.’’

 

 

 

 

The same smell lingers on the outskirts of the pub, almost completely disappearing underneath the overwhelming smell of blood. Surprisingly the scent doesn’t follow the victim inside the pub. The perpetrator had been lurking outside then, waiting for its victim to come out.

 

Derek lifts the DO NOT CROSS - POLICE INVESTIGATION tape and lets his gaze linger for a moment on the stains of blood that has the alley colored red. The cheery sunlight feels out of place when it pools around the horror scene. He looks at Parrish and purses his mouth.

 

‘’It’s the same scent on both scenes.’’

 

‘’God damnit,’’ Jordan swears and rubs his face. ‘’The unsub moves fast. He’s gone from corpses to alive victims within three weeks of the first body. Supes go under the radar too easily. Mundane human would be so much easier to catch.’’

 

‘’No video surveillance?’’

 

Parrish shakes his head. ‘’The one on main street reveals nothing, and there are only cameras inside the pub. The streets are virtually unmonitored.’’

 

Derek considers this. ‘’And no eyewitnesses either?’’

 

‘’No,’’ Jordan sighs. ‘’We’ve got no identifying marks. We have no idea if the person is a man or a woman, even if the idea of moving over 200 pound athlete would lean the investigation towards a male unsub.’’ He shifts his weight, letting Derek get a little farther away from the tape. ‘’It was a slow night, and the victim’s friends only noticed his absence after twenty minutes. If the unsub attacked immediately, he’d have gotten at least a ten minute head start. And all this considering there was alcohol involved, so the time frames might not even hold true.’’

 

‘’But the killer, he took the victim with them, right? So they must have had some kind of transportation.’’

 

‘’Yeah well, I ain’t excluding magic. The surveilled streets couple blocks down from here had no cars pass by within the time frame of the murder nor any time after that, not before the police arrived.’’

 

There’s a moment of considering silence before Parrish claps Derek’s shoulder. ‘’C’mon man,’’ he says, ‘’Let’s swing by the pharmacy and head back to the station. There’s nothing we can do for now.’’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Before they even get themselves back inside the station, Derek can hear Stiles’ angry voice all the way outside. He can see the moment Jordan hears him too because his face twists into a grimace.

 

The volume increases the closer they get to the sheriff’s office. In fact, Derek can _smell_ the pure, unadulterated rage Stiles is exuding. Its tang is bitter and thick, wrapping its smell onto Derek’s throat.

 

‘’ - you have _no_ excuse. _None_. I’m so - ‘’

 

Derek winces as the door creaks slightly when Parrish opens it without prompting, and Stiles whirls around to face the two of them, eyes sparkling with anger.

 

 _‘’You!’’_ Stiles grinds out, hands balling into fists.

 

Parrish schools his face into an impassive one and says nothing.

 

Stiles’ eyes glance over to Derek before landing back to Jordan. In the background, the sheriff just sighs softly. He cajoles to his son tiredly, ‘’Come on now, Stiles. We did our research, we did our groundwork. The drill is always the same. You know we wouldn’t have invoked Derek, a _civilian_ , into an ongoing investigation hadn’t that been the very last absolute necessary thing to do.’’

 

Stiles grits his teeth and Derek sees him battle with himself and his feelings. Sometimes Derek feels a pang of regret about offering Stiles bits and pieces of his past. In his post-nightmare fevers, when he’s the most vulnerable, he murmurs unfiltered of the horror he sees whenever he closes his eyes. Of the ash, the blood, the hurt. The snap of bonds breaking, the unbearable agony of losing his pack, over and over and over.

 

Nobody had realized back then just in how deep in grief Derek was drowning. The truth revealed itself piece by piece, dawning on Stiles as he kept staying by Derek’s side, despite how much he pushed the man away. It made Stiles develop a protective streak over Derek as fierce and solid as the one he holds over his father. If not even more so after Derek saved his life when the demon fox got its claws into Stiles’ spark again.

 

A lesser man would’ve deemed Stiles a lost cause then, unsalvageable. Even Deaton whom Scott went to first, said that there was no ritual strong enough to get the spirit out of the human. Not after Stiles’ body had gotten so weak after the first time, that surely Stiles would die in the process.

 

It had been Lydia’s and Derek’s combined efforts, with the huge help of sheriff who kept bringing them food and offering some rational advice, that actually got the ritual scraped together. Stiles had bouts of awareness between battling the dominance of his own consciousness, and thanks to his own strong anchor, he knew exactly when to chant certain words, and when to surrender his mind completely to the fox, letting Derek and Lydia handle its capture.

 

The hardest part of recovery for Stiles had been the knowledge that Deaton had been right. (He hates the man. Hates it even more when he’s right.) His body had been too weak to fight against the re-possession of the nogitsune and he most certainly would’ve died sixty seconds into the two hour ritual had it not been for Derek.

 

Derek, who sacrificed a part of his core magic, part of his wolf, to Stiles’ spark so that his body wouldn’t burn out from the exertion. And Stiles, always the overachiever, had greedily grabbed onto Derek’s magic and gobbled it up, twisting the ritual enough that instead of locking the demon fox _out_ of Stiles’ body and into the wooden box they’d crafted, Stiles’ spark shackled the nogitsune _inside_ his body, gleefully using its powers with zero possibility that the fox would ever manage to free itself.

 

When Stiles would die, so would the nogitsune and all the magic it holds.

 

Which is why, a few years later when the kelpie butchered Derek’s leg, his body couldn’t heal it all back up. It was a price he gladly paid for Stiles’ life. He could still transform into a wolf, he was still strong and his senses sharp. They just were slightly muted, or altered. He didn’t need to be 100%. He wasn’t ever going to be an alpha again, didn’t have to pretend to be invincible to other packs in order to gain their respect.

 

He could still be happy.

 

Derek takes a few steps closer and hesitantly rises his hand to touch Stiles’ arm. He goes slow, lest Stiles decide his advances wouldn’t be welcome, but all Stiles does is pin him with a hard look before grabbing his hand and tugging him into a hug.

 

‘’You could’ve called Scott or Liam,’’ Stiles mutters. ‘’Or hell, the pack in Fresno that still owes us a favor from two years ago. They literally have Bloodhounds in their midst.’’

 

Jordan crosses his arms over his chest. ‘’Yeah, well, we don’t have the time to wait for them to come down. It could take weeks to arrange passages for them. This suspect works fast, unnervingly so. They went from rotting corpses to murdering in order to get their hands on a dead body, in less than three weeks from the commencement. Things are _bad_ , Stiles.’’

 

‘’And,’’ Derek says, rubbing a comforting circle on Stiles’ back, ‘’The unsub is a supe. The scent of them is on both sites.’’

 

This alerts Stiles up a bit, though he remains wary. ‘’You’re sure?’’ Derek nods.

 

Stiles chews the information mutinously, brows furrowed, his mouth pursed. Then he concedes, ‘’Okay. I get it. I get why you called Derek. I don’t _like_ it, but I understand why you did it,’’ Stiles grumps. ‘’But from now on, me and Jordan will do the leg work. And if something needs sniffing, we’re grabbing Liam.’’

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles and the man leans away from the embrace slightly poking him on the chest, eyes narrowed, ‘’Don’t think I don’t see how much strain your leg is undergoing. You may fool my dad and your own best friend, but damnit Derek, that won’t fly with me.’’

 

Grimacing, Derek puts his weight evenly on both legs. The cruiser is cramped in comparison to his Camaro, and even the short trip back and forth had pinned his muscles uncomfortably. He had been leaning imperceptibly on any convenient surface when they rounded places with Jordan, only slightly luring him into thinking Derek was fine.

 

Jordan’s face falls and he glances at Derek’s leg guiltily. ‘’You’ve been in pain this whole time?’’

 

Derek shakes his head, ‘’Not any more than I usually am. It’s fine, Jordan.’’

 

‘’It’s actually not fine,’’ Stiles growls, ‘’And you bet your furry ass that Dr. Laquisha is going to hear about this. How many times have we talked about you putting your own health above others and not acting recklessly so as to cause yourself harm?’’

 

‘’Son,’’ Sheriff says patiently, ‘’Maybe you should take this conversation and have it at home. Respecting privacy.’’

 

This time it’s Stiles who winces. ‘’Sorry,’’ he huffs, and then lets his forehead rest against Derek’s sternum for a few seconds before taking a step back. He looks at his father and asks, ‘’Is there anything we can do right this second?’’

 

John shakes his head. ‘’I need to call a couple places, have conversations with some experts. I’ll call you the second we need you. In the meanwhile, I want all of you, including your pack, to keep your noses clean and stay on guard. No snooping around the crime scenes without an escort that is me or Parrish. Got that, kid?’’

 

‘’Not our first rodeo, dad, but yeah. Sir, yes, sir.’’

 

‘’Good. Now go on, stay off trouble. And if any of you kids get a whiff of something suspicious, you call me. Understood? No pulling any hero acts on your own without backup.’’

 

Stiles’ face softens and he nods. ‘’Yeah, dad,’’ he says. ‘’We’ll be careful. No taking stupid risks, got it.’’

 

John steps away from his desk and pulls Stiles into a hug. ‘’Love you kid.’’

 

‘’Love you too, dad.’’ Stiles hugs back tightly. Somehow, since being on close proximity, they wrangle Derek in their hug pile, making him almost choke in the scents of familial love and affection. When Derek casts a wide eyed look in Jordan’s directions, the man just winks at him. The traitor.

 

When they leave the office after some heartfelt back clapping, Derek offers the pharmacy bag to Stiles. He takes it and gives a pleased smile. ‘’Thanks man. I completely forgot about these when I went to get my adderall.’’

 

‘’I know,’’ Derek says, but can’t help the warm squirmy feeling in his chest the way Stiles wraps his arm around Derek’s shoulders companionably, offering subtly to share his weight. He just likes making the man happy, is all. Stiles, if anyone, deserves good things. And if those good things are as mundane as fetching Stiles’ meds or food or showing him where the owls nest or loaning him Derek’s camaro, well. Of course Derek will do them for him.

 

It’s what friends do to each other. And he and Stiles are friends.

 

He doesn’t stop to examine why thinking of Stiles as his friend both gives him a delighted flush high on his cheeks as well as something heavy lodging into his chest.

 

Things are fine.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next week feels like the longest seven days Derek has ever lived through. There are three more people gone missing, one which a video surveillance caught a tape of, until just as the killer is about to turn so his, and it _is_ a he, face is visible, the tape cuts off to mere static.

 

Derek can practically _taste_ the fear oozing off of the whole community. Anyone could be the killer. Everyone's a suspect, and nobody trusts each other anymore. The sheriff issues a town wide curfew, creating a new level of quiet panic where hardware stores run out of locks and crowbars and baseball bats. It’s _insane_.

 

Stiles is angry all the time now. It’s carefully controlled, contained. But it, too, bubbles just beneath the surface of Stiles’ skin, visible only in the fiery spark in his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands. Ready to burst at a moment’s notice. Derek tries his best to be calm and nonthreatening, but his acts of submissiveness only infuriates Stiles more.

 

Honestly, Derek is at a loss at what to do. Normally he’d just gather Stiles into the nook of his couch and besiege him with Derek’s body and the quilt Stiles loves so much, feed him his favorite food and plug in his favorite movie. Or sometimes he’d just quietly ask him to bed where Derek can hold him close and rub and caress away the lingering frustration.

 

He can’t do that right now. Any of that. Stiles barely sleeps, drowning himself in research. He shies away from touch, from his father, from his pack, his brother. From Derek. He does spend his days in Derek’s apartment, which relieves Derek and worries his father.

 

He doesn’t take all of Stiles’ angry bullshit lying down though, and twice he leaves the apartment with banging doors, leaving a fuming Stiles behind. Three times he calls his therapist to help him calm down and gather his thoughts enough to let Stiles know he’s being a little shit and needs to stop.

 

He makes a good dent in his book reading list though. And his own work. Things come to head two days after the fourth victim is found.

 

Derek’s sitting in the dimly lit kitchen, absently stirring his tea that has gone cold at least half an hour prior, reading. He can vaguely hear Stiles in the living room, flitting through paper pages and typing on his laptop with rapid succession.

 

_‘I put on my pajamas around 11:30 and lay on the floor next to Lynn’s bed. The Rabbit on the Moon looked so pretty shining in the outlet._

 

_‘’Katie?’’ Lynn said softly. She hadn’t talked all day._

 

_I sat up. ‘’Yes?’’_

 

_‘’You have to try to get better grades. Promise?’’_

 

_‘’Okay.’’_

 

_‘’You should go to college. Promise?’’_

 

_‘’I’ll think about it.’’_

 

_‘’Promise?’’_

 

_‘’Yes.’’_

 

_‘’Take care of Mom and Dad and Sammy.’’_

 

_‘’Okay, I promise.’’ I hesitated. ‘’When you get better, you can help me take care of them.’’_

 

_‘’Okay, I promise.’’ She laughed very softly, almost soundlessly._

 

_The phone rang and she seemed to perk up a bit. But it stopped after just one ring, and she seemed to deflate. It was amazing that as sick as she was, she could still be interested in something as small as the ring of a phone._

 

_She groaned suddenly. ‘’Can we open the window?’’_

 

_I jumped to open the window. She closed her eyes, and I sat next to the bed and stared at her. Her skin looked almost purely white like the white of the ghost of Brenda I’d seen at the swamp. She opened her eyes again._

 

_‘’It’s too dark in here,’’ she said._

 

_I turned on the light. A little brown moth flitted in. It wasn’t big, not even an inch long. It landed on the ceiling. Lynn stared at it. Then it flitted toward the lamp and away again. Lynn kept watching. For a moment the party next door quieted down. Our room was so quiet, I could just make out the sound of the moth’s wings. Lynn didn’t move, except for her eyes. Her eyes moved this way and that as she watched the moth. It was - ‘_

 

The shrill sound of Stiles’ phone ringing startles them both, the echo of the ringtone in the quiet apartment a loud contrast to the soft quietness that had enveloped them.

 

Stiles scrambles for the device, almost nose diving on the floor when he stretches himself off the couch. Derek puts down his book and pads to him, trying to calm his own frantic heartbeat, looking over Stiles’ shoulder. Both of them frown when the ID of Scott’s flashes on the screen.

 

‘’I have a bad feeling about this,’’ Stiles mutters, before tapping answer and guiding the phone to his ear.

 

‘’Hey yo, Scotty boy.’’

 

_‘’Stiles!’’_

 

Derek goes ramrod straight where he stands, every muscle tightening in his body at the sheer sound of _panic_ and _fear_ in Scott’s voice. Stiles freezes too, the device in his hand creaking slightly where Stiles’ grip tightens too much.

 

‘’Yeah, I’m right here, bud. Calm down,’’ Stiles says softly. ‘’Are you hurt?’’

 

‘’Nhg, yes, yeah, shit, I’m - it’s _bleeding_ \- ‘’

 

‘’Okay. What’s bleeding? How much?’’

 

Derek fetches his jacket and car keys, handing them straight to Stiles as the man calmly collects the information from Scott’s panicked rambling, easily guiding him into composure. Out of the two of them, Stiles is the better driver. Derek might be able to react faster with his enhanced senses, but Stiles knows the streets like the back of his hands. He’s more assured driver of the two of them, not ruled by his fear that if they crash, his passenger won’t survive with him.

 

‘’Okay, Scotty. Okay. Can you tell me where you are?’’

 

Scott shakily answers and Derek curses inwardly. _Of course_ Scott has to be outside way past curfew, and _of course_ he does it when he’s alone without backup. Of _fucking_ course the murderer happens to cross paths with him just as he’s vulnerable. Stiles pokes at his arm and Derek looks over. Stiles mouths at him ‘ _I think he’s not healing.’_

 

Derek raises a worried brow. Stiles nods, face grim. The knowledge adds a level of alert that has them both rushing out of the apartment. There aren’t many things that force an Alpha’s healing to stop. Since Scott didn’t seem to be choking on black vomit, nor even throwing up, the worst case scenario playing in Derek’s head is magic. And magic is always something that puts him on edge. Sorcerers, witches, druids. . . Those kinds of people are not to be trifled with.

 

But then again, Stiles isn’t one to be messed with either. That eases his worry a bit.

 

 

 

The shadows draw long where they set against the street lights, and Derek’s heart beats in frantic rhythm of Scott’s inhales and exhales. He’s on speaker so Stiles can drive and talk, and Derek can keep an ear out on anything that happens in Scott’s background. The radio is silent, the only sounds being the engine’s purr and the shift of its gears. It makes Derek’s fingers itch with the need to shift, to _protect_ , to drop and bare his fangs to the threat that’s out of his reach. He’s frustrated with it, feeling helplessly trapped in a familiar cycle of being unable to _do anything_. He needs to be in the thick of things, get to be physically involved, to see the issues resolve by his own hand.

 

A cool hand presses against his cheek and Derek turns his head slowly. Stiles’ gaze hasn’t wandered away from the road, but the fingers wrapped around the clutch are now softly touching the scruff of Derek’s jaw, tranquil in their slow strokes.

 

‘’It’s gonna be okay, bud,’’ Stiles soothes, though Derek isn’t sure if he’s saying it to Scott or him.

 

‘’We’ll be there in two minutes. Just hang on a little while longer, okay?’’

 

 _‘’Nghkay,’’_ Scott half sobs, sounding far off the confident 23-year old he had become over the years, and more like the terrified sixteen year old as Derek him remembers the most.

 

The Camaro’s brakes screech when they finally find Scott, Stiles expertly throwing the car in park with the roaring smell of burning tire. He flings himself out of the car, Derek hot on his heels, to the dark alley where Stiles can sense Scott’s distress. The Alpha is hunkering behind a big trash container in an alley between two diners. Two dots of red greet them when they approach, the were growling lowly in warning.

 

‘’It’s just us,’’ Stiles says, hands held up in an act of a peace offering. Scott visibly wrestles with his instincts for a moment, with difficulty, curbing the wolf back. Stiles doesn’t slow down even a little bit, steadily getting closer. Derek kind of wants to yank him away from Scott, the wolf’s not so stellar control making him uneasy.

 

Derek can clearly smell the blood through the thick smell of decomposing garbage and when Scott crawls to the open, he can see that the damage isn’t minimal. Scott’s whole shoulder is dripping with blood, his shirt torn and soaked through. The wound, though not as big as Derek imagined it being, is not healing despite Scott’s efforts at pressing at the injury.

 

At least it’s on his right, rather than left, far enough from the heart to not cause any _more_ complicating problems.

 

‘’You’ve looked better, bud,’’ Stiles says, finally able to touch his brother as Scott draws his fangs back in. ‘’You’ve also looked worse. Way, way worse. So.’’

 

It makes Scott give a wobbly smile. Derek bends down slightly where Scott is sitting clumsily, to assess the injury.

 

‘’Were you unconscious at any point?’’ he asks, and Scott shakes his head. ‘’But the blood’s not clotting.’’ Another head shake.

 

Stiles gives it a quick inspection as well, brushing his hand through Scott’s hair in an offer of comfort. Scott leans to it probably unconsciously, acting much more like a beta would when facing his own angry Alpha. Derek knows their behaviour with each other has always been much like this, though it amplified when Scott had become a werewolf. Or that’s what he thinks.

 

‘’What happened?’’ Stiles asks tightly.

 

‘’The - ‘’ Scott croaks, clears his throat and says, ‘’The dude was crazy. Okay? I thought - I thought he was just an old geezer. I wasn’t gonna venture out on my own, I swear! But me and Dr. Deaton were closing the practice and I was only gonna go grab some food really fast. But then I saw this old man having difficulties getting cross the street and - ‘’

 

‘’And you went to help him, _God_ , Scott,’’ Stiles groans.

 

‘’I’m sorry,’’ Scott whines, letting Derek hoist him up after deeming the act not to be aggravating the wound much. Stiles follows the motion, hoovering, his teeth grinding together so hard both wolves can hear it.

 

‘’You’re an _idiot_ ,’’ Stiles fumes, jabbing a finger inches from the wolf’s face. ‘’We’ve known for over a week that the killer had magic. That he’s powerful beyond our knowledge. He could’ve _killed_ you, Scott. To _death_.’’

 

‘’How was I supposed to know that he was an all powerful sorcerer? He was an old man, Stiles! All the victims have been like, some, some young heavy athletes. I didn’t - ’’

 

‘’And you think, what, that old people are weak and incapable of cruelty? Or that magic wouldn’t be of help at all?’’ Stiles asks incredulously. ’’Remember Gerard? Deucalion? That one crazy bitch from Ontario that was a hundred year old spirit and in need of a Banshee’s heart? Ring any bells for you?’’

 

Scott nods miserably.

 

‘’Then what the fuck man?’’

 

Jutting his chin defiantly, Scott looks away. He lets Derek gently steer him towards the Camaro with Stiles walking few steps ahead of them. ‘’He smelled human. I was just trying to help. I didn’t mean anything by it.’’

 

Stiles sighs, aggravated, but his stance softens visibly, even without Derek seeing his face. ‘’I know. That’s. . . It’s a part of who you are. But damn it. We’re in lockdown from a _murderer_. Christ, there’s a _town wide curfew_ with added police patrols from another county! What were you _thinking_?’’

 

Scott shrugs. Derek suspects, like most of Scott’s actions, he just does them without giving them a further thought. But unlike Derek, Scott’s most achievements and improvised acts end with great results. It makes him resent the younger man a little bit, or at least it used to. It took him a long time to forgive Scott for using Derek’s body without his consent to bite Gerard. Many, many therapy sessions to even realize how badly he was re-traumatized by losing the autonomy of his own body over and over. But he did, and he’s forgiven people who’ve done worse towards him and really. What happened that night had only been the beginning of a saga that continued for a long time. But he’s past it now, past all that anger that festered between him and Scott, and they don’t even need Stiles to buffer things for them anymore.

 

Most of the time, anyway.

 

Stiles opens the backdoor for the both of them, and Derek helps Scott in, strapping him in his seatbelt, careful not to jostle the shoulder. Ranking the heat up, the Camaro purrs back to life under Stiles’ hands, and Derek barely has time to sit down in the front before Stiles starts down the street.

 

‘’You said you were with Deaton, right?’’ Stiles says after a moment of zooming through the deserted blocks, looking back to Scott from the rearview mirror.

 

‘’Uh, yeah,’’ Scott confirms, still looking pale. The blood flow has slowed down marginally, but both Stiles and Derek can see Scott shivering. Shock and blood loss. Derek reaches underneath his seat for a plastic bag and grabs a fluffy blanket out of it that he’s started to store in the car. They have a lot of emergencies that require a shock blanket. This is not his first rodeo.

 

‘’Here,’’ he says, offering the thick quilt. ‘’It’ll help you warm up a little so you won’t go further into shock.’’

 

‘’ ‘m not in shock,’’ Scott mutters shakily, but takes the offering and drapes it over his thighs.

 

‘’But Deaton didn’t come with you to the burger joint? You went by yourself?’’ Stiles presses.

 

‘’I, yeah. Dr. Deaton said he was in a hurry to get home for a skype conference or something. We parted ways at the clinic.’’

 

‘’So he was nowhere near the diner at the time you were attacked?’’

 

‘’Why would he have been?’’

 

‘’Just a hunch,’’ Stiles mutters darkly. Any further protest on Scott’s part is quieted when Stiles grabs his phone and dials his dad. Derek shoots him a look and Stiles immediately puts the device on speaker, leaving it on the dash so his both hands are on the wheel.

 

John answers on the third ring.

 

‘’What happened?’’ he opens with, and Stiles winces. He’s obviously considering pulling the punches, considering what time it is and not wanting to add stress to his father’s heart, but then just blurts out,

 

‘’Scott was attacked. But before you jump into any horrid conclusions - ‘’ he says, speaking over his father’s alarm, ‘’Scott’s fine. Or, as fine as a hole on his shoulder is considered fine. He’s healing, if slowly, and we’re driving to Melissa’s house. Are you still in the office or...?’’

 

‘’I’m with Melissa,’’ his father confirms gruffly. Both Stiles and Scott share a gleeful look, Scott perking up considerably.

 

‘’Okay, well, we’re like, ten minutes out,’’ he says tightly, barely containing his delight at his father’s and Melissa’s situation. Though the way the sheriff sighs longsufferingly, he doesn’t quite succeed.

 

‘’Does Melissa have to take out the first aid kit?’’

 

‘’Nah, Mr. S,’’ Scott pipes up from the backseat. ‘’I’m healing. Slowly, but, yeah.’’

 

‘’Alright. I’m glad to hear that. You kids drive safe now. See you soon.’’

 

‘’Love you dad,’’ Stiles says quickly, like John would cut off before he got to say it. There’s affection in the sheriff’s voice when he tells Stiles he loves him back.

 

 _‘’Dude_ ,’’ Scott says excitedly, like he’s genuinely surprised, after they’ve hung up, ‘’We’re gonna be real brothers!’’

 

Derek frowns slightly, listening to the happy exclamations. He’s known for a couple years now that Melissa and John have been seeing each other. Their mixed scents are strong and they touch each other frequently when they are in the same room. John and Melissa seem to have a really enthusiastic sex life. Derek barely knows how they smell individually anymore. It’s just something that werewolves aren’t supposed to mention even when they notice. Respecting everyone’s privacy.

 

Then again, Scott is a werewolf with just as sensitive nose as Derek. Huffing, he wonders if this is one of those times both Scott and Stiles blissfully ignorant of the things happening right under their noses because they _need_ to be. Because if, for some bizarre reason, John and Melissa wouldn’t work out, it would hurt them a lot more than if they just were unaware of the whole thing.

 

‘’How’s your shoulder?’’ Derek asks, deciding to lead the conversation into a lot safer venues.

 

‘’Uhhh,’’ Scott says, taking his trembling hand off of the wound. Underneath, there is only unblemished skin left. ‘’Better?’’ he ventures, prodding at his shoulder. ‘’It’s. . . Gone? I mean, when I got it, it wouldn’t stop bleeding at all but now. . . ‘’

 

Stiles taps the steering wheel, pondering. ‘’Magic,’’ he ends up saying, no further explanation needed.

 

‘’But if the man is as powerful as we think he is,’’ Derek says, ‘’then it should’ve been easy for him to take Scott down then and there. He didn’t hesitate with the other victims. So why now?’’

 

There’s a few moment’s silence.

 

‘’Maybe he got startled when I wolfed out in surprise?’’ Scott scratches his head.

 

‘’. . . Maybe,’’ Stiles allows, smoothly navigating the McCall’s neighborhood and curving to their front yard. ‘’In any case, we have a long night ahead of us,’’ he adds grimly, nodding at Parrish who parks right next to them in his own car and his civilian clothes, tired rings around his eyes.

 

‘’Well, Scotty,’’ Stiles says, all of them exiting the car and joining Jordan on the front porch, ‘’I guess it’s time to call a pack meeting.’’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Derek rubs his eyes tiredly. He would be near passing out if the morning sun wouldn’t slant its rays right onto his face from behind the cracked blinds. All of the people still up are close to swaying on their feet, some clutching to their coffee cups, Stiles and Lydia to their RedBulls.

 

It’s been years since the level of alert has been this high. Derek’s pretty sure he still doesn’t know half of these people in Scott’s pack, even if he’s infrequently in contact with them. They don’t feel like a pack. Scott doesn’t feel like an Alpha, a real leader. In fact, _Stiles_ seems like the Alpha. He does all the hard decisions, commands the attention of the room when he desires it, discards Scott’s ideas and plans how he sees fit, keeps all of the pack members in constant contact with him and with each other, offers help and advice should anyone need it. . . Generally just behaves like an Alpha werewolf would.

 

Actually, he behaves as an Alpha, a left hand and the pack emissary. Not that Stiles has ever even labeled what he is to the pack.

 

Stiles has always had that presence of him that demands everyone’s interest. Even way before the fox demon re-possessed him, trying to twist Stiles into something he wasn’t, _isn’t_ , Stiles had been the one to call the shots behind the scenes.

 

Well. Some of the shots. The other 25 percent of Scott’s doings are something he’s pulled off by himself without any input from his almost-brother.

 

He feels more than sees Stiles entering the living room, closing his eyes against the gentle hand that cups his neck.

 

‘’Hey,’’ Stiles murmurs, slumping onto the sofa beside Derek.

 

‘’Hey,’’ he sighs back, startling at the ice cold package thrust against his quivering thigh.

 

‘’Thought you might need it by now.’’

 

Nodding his thanks, Derek slides the icepack further up his thigh, more near to his groin. Less than his thigh, his hip has started to ache something fierce.

 

‘’So,’’ Stiles says, his voice slightly hoarse from fatigue, ‘’we’ve decided to go back to where Scott was attacked, sniff if there was a scent trail to be followed, which probably actually doesn’t even exist because fucking _magic_ , and if there’s a trail, we’re probably just gonna see where it leads. But then, if there’s nothing which your wolfy noses can pick that’s out of the ordinary, we get to a backup plan.’’

 

He gives a huge yawn and settles more comfortably under Derek’s arm, smacking his lips. Derek gently draws the man impossibly closer, letting the flush of warmth of his own body heat up Stiles’. The man makes a pleased sound at the action, eyes fluttering closed.

 

‘’And the backup plan,’’ Stiles slurs, ‘’Is to try to lure the sorcerer, whose name is actually Geoffrey Theobald, can you imagine?’’

 

‘’Geoffrey like the one in Game of Thrones?’’

 

‘’Ding ding, got it in one. Also why are all the evil ones named Theo? Anyway, this old dude is actually wanted in several states for all sorts of nasty things. He’s just never been caught because mundane and magic don’t mix. And not only that but a couple dozen different supernatural investigators are on the dude’s trail, so if we manage to either capture or kill him, we’ll be getting a reward.’’

 

Wanted dead or alive. Derek almost hates to ask, but. . . ‘’Did. . . Do you know how strong he is?’’

 

‘’Hm? Oh, yeah. He’s only a level 7 if we ranked them from 0-10. He’s actually been arrested once before, but get this. He was released as not criminally responsible by Debbie Argent. She’s like, Gerard’s sister’s nephew’s niece or something like that. This Argent worked in a mental facility until she disappeared three weeks after Theobald was set free. Apparently, if the little birds are anything to be believed, she had made a deal with the sorcerer to bring back her husband that had left her. . . Well, probably because she was batshit crazy.’’

 

‘’Wow,’’ Derek says quietly.

 

Stiles snorts. ‘’Yeah, oh wow. Anyway, she probably didn’t get her deal because she was found two years later, only recognizable from her dental records. She had obviously helped Theobald to hide and he used her in some sort of black magic ritual to make himself invisible to other magic users so he wouldn’t get caught. He used to be a hunted man until he went underground. That was like thirty years ago.’’

 

‘’And now he resurfaced here,’’ Derek murmurs. Stiles nods, snuggling into another position.

 

‘’Uh-huh. We’ve been throwing out ideas with a couple enforcers of other packs, but so far we have no idea of the dude’s motive. Maybe he needs another victim to make himself invisible again? Or maybe he just got bloodthirsty after a couple decades without a single killing? Who the fuck knows.’’

 

Derek brushes his hand through Stiles’ messy locks. The man doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to rush out the door to execute any further motion. ‘’And when is our plan about to be put into action?’’

 

Stiles makes a noise and a seesaw gesture with his hand. ‘’Later. When we’ve slept and are all well rested enough to do some sort of coordinated attack and not just charge up like half-dead zombies.’’

 

‘’So sleep?’’

 

‘’Yeeaaaah,’’ Stiles groans. ‘’Sleep. Wards are up so _we_ are all safe. So sleep is good.’’

 

Derek sighs and sinks deeper into the cushions. Because Stiles was, as always, right. Getting involved with a level 7 sorcerer with zero sleep was a terrible idea. The others share the sentiment, grabbing their places from the floor which has been invaded by a pile of blankets and pillows and a couple sleeping wolves. Kira settles a blanket over both him and Stiles after Derek manages to get them both vertically, Stiles a comforting weight on top of him. The icepack is carefully tucked between his hip and the backrest, chilling his aching muscles but not touching Stiles.

 

He nods her his thanks, making sure everyone gets a place before letting himself drift off. The sun is warm and nice, making him feel toasty and safe.

 

There’s not much that can go wrong with a quick nap in a pack pile, right?

 

Wrong.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Derek can officially admit it. He’s a bloody idiot. The years of quiet living has considerably softened him, and the time spent in therapy has obviously made him less vigilant.

 

Really. He should _know_ better than to take a fucking _nap_ in the middle of a _murder_ case.

 

He’s going to be sick. When he’d startled awake to Stiles’ panicked cursing, the weight of the man shifting painfully on top of him, cold fingers digging into his scruff, he’d wanted to growl at Stiles for _interrupting his sleep_. Instead, he’d been dragged up to a sitting position with a litany of ‘Fuck fuck _fuck_ \- ‘, Stiles clambering away from him to find his phone after ensuring Derek was in the land of living.

 

At first Derek had been confused. Mind sleep-addled and barely online. He’d followed Stiles’ heartbeat, barely paying any attention when the man started dialling whomever it was, slightly amused by the situation. Well.

 

Amused until he’d tried honing his hearing onto other heartbeats in the house to see if everyone else was as dazed by this sudden burst of wild, barely controlled energy from Stiles as he was. Only to find that the only people in the house were the two of them. Where the McCall pack had cuddled up and fallen asleep together on the floor there were only rumpled sheets and blankets left.

 

He staggers up, fumbling for support from the sofa. A good thing too because the moment he shifts his weight evenly on both legs, he almost topples down from the burning stab that flares up his thigh, the muscles cramping in misery.

 

The soft cushions mercifully take his weight back as his whole body covers with a sheen of cold sweat, bile dragging up his throat with the rhythm of the convulses his muscles give. He stares at his thighs, painfully aware that again he was going to be useless. He couldn’t stand on two legs. It wouldn’t carry all two hundred pounds of him.

 

Stiles ends his call and looks at Derek where he’s grimacing in pain. Stiles’ face twists with worry and anxiety.

 

‘’You can’t walk, can you?’’ He breathes, walking over and dropping to his knees in front of Derek, hands hovering above his thighs.

 

‘’No,’’ Derek grits, ‘’I can’t.’’

 

Stiles rubs his hand over his face, mind whirring with alternative options. Obviously Derek’s cane would do no good in this situation, since they need to head out and _fast_. Efficiency and swiftness being the key words.

 

‘’Okay, okay,’’ Stiles stands up, pacing. ‘’We can fix this. We can - ‘’

 

‘’You can’t _fix_ it,’’ Derek snaps. ‘’What do you want me to do? Hop forward with one leg?’’

 

‘’No,’’ Stiles snaps back. ‘’I don’t want you to - ‘’ He growls in frustration. ‘’There’s gotta be a, a, a third alternative. I can’t carry you fast enough and a car won’t take us where we need to go. Dad’s already on the tail of them and - ‘’ Stiles’ eyes widen with realization, ‘’Dude, can you shift to your full wolf?’’

 

Derek looks down at his thighs, frowning. Well. Three legs is always better than one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘’Come on,’’ Stiles urges, his hands tightly locked onto the thick fur of Derek’s back. ‘’I know you’re hurting,’’ he chokes out, ‘’God, I can feel the amount of pain you’re in. But just a little further, okay? Just a little bit, big guy. We’re almost there.’’

 

Derek braces himself and thrusts himself forward, fighting through the agony of every step of his paws. At least the wolf form lets him put his weight almost evenly on three legs. The fourth he tries his damnest not to use.

 

Another howl pierces through the preserve, the bright afternoon sun shining through the green leaves, allowing even Stiles to see the creatures fleeing from the predator.

 

From the chilling call of an Alpha.

 

‘’At least we have the advantage of daylight,’’ Stiles mutters, making Derek chuff in agreement. ‘’This bad guy really doesn’t care for the cliched night shenanigans and neither do I.’’

 

A rather badly coordinated jump makes Stiles dig his heels sharply onto Derek ribs. He winces, balancing his footing and tries not to drop his cargo.

 

The pain is radiating to his back now. Wrapping around the muscle, the bones of his spine. It’s not as bad as he’s experienced in the past. He’s been tortured, shot and clawed open. He’s almost drowned, almost burned to death, almost choked to death. Knows how it feels to be unable to control his own body, to not feel the expand of his lungs, to almost hold his heart in his hands where a water sprite carved it out of his chest.

 

He knows the pain of holding Stiles through his nightmares. To embrace him, soothe him, yet be unable to stop the dreams of fear and death that so often plague him in his sleep. He’s uncomfortably intimate with the pain of losing loved ones, of seeing the light go out of their eyes when his claws pierce them, his ignorance drives them away to torture and decapitation, how his innocence towards the world turned the heartbeats he loved into ashes.

 

He _knows_ pain.

 

But this, this chronic, never ending pain that follows him day in, day out, _that_ he’s still unaccustomed to. The misery of having bad days constantly, where even the good days his thigh throbs and hips ache.

 

‘’I laid wards,’’ Stiles says, startling him out of his daze. ‘’If the fucker wants to leave your old house where he’s holed himself up with our pack, he’s gonna have to think twice or feel ungodly amounts of pain.’’

 

Derek nods. Another howl raises up, all of the pack members joining into the angry chorus. There’s fear there too. Derek can practically taste it in the air where the wolves had reluctantly followed their Alpha, trailing after their leader when he’d called them. Stiles looks up at the sky at the sound and curses.

 

‘’It’s the blood,’’ Stiles says, furious, giving the answer Derek had pondered about. ‘’When Theobald attacked Scott, he knew exactly who he was. His plan wasn’t to kill, but to take his blood. Even with our protection charms, Theobald is able to bypass the defensive magic of it and take control of a person if they have a hefty amount of their DNA.’’

 

A chill runs down Derek’s spine. That means -

 

‘’And since Scott has suddenly developed the lungs of an actual wolf to make a decent enough of a howl, I’m like, 99.99% sure Theobald is controlling him. And controlling an Alpha. . .’’

 

Means being able to control the whole pack. Derek wants to smack himself. He _knew_ all that. He should’ve figured that out the second the sorcerer had attacked Scott but hadn’t killed him and dragged him off. If Theobald needs more victims, more dead bodies, what’s a better solution than having an entire werewolf pack to do the dirty work for him?

 

‘’Well, this fucker didn’t count on the fact that a werewolf pack doesn’t consist of only easily manipulated werewolves.’’

 

Derek hears the feral grin on Stiles’ tone. Theobald Geoffrey is going to have no idea what hit him.

 

They burst into the clearing. Derek scowls at the sight of it. He really should tear down his childhood home. Too many people wanting to harm them use it as a base of action. It’s annoying while it hurts too.

 

‘’How wonderful of you to join us,’’ Theobald says, spreading his arms as if to welcome them. The sun isn’t doing the man any favors, the skin of the sorcerer’s face white and pallid, purple bruises under his eyes, cheeks sunken in. He looks more like a skeleton than an actual human being.

 

Derek bares his teeth, growling between frantic pants. It feels like his whole rear is in flames, legs shaking with the sheer effort of standing now that the most of the adrenaline has worn off. Stiles hops down from Derek’s back, patting himself clean and straightening his clothes.

 

‘’I really wish you idiots would stop using Derek’s old house as your base. It’s getting really old real fast,’’ Stiles says conversationally.

 

Derek lets Stiles do the talking, distracting their target. He assesses the situation. The pack has gathered behind the sorcerer, eyes glowing and all in half shift. Scott looks the most feral of them, eyes wildly bouncing back from Stiles to Derek. Everyone is in different sorts of undress, the worse off being Scott who's shirtless. Derek winces, already imagining the bruises that will litter across Scott's skin if Stiles' plan pans out.

 

Theobald holds an amulet on his neck, ruby with what Derek’s pretty sure is Scott’s blood. It’s how he controls the wolf, and in addition, his pack.

 

‘’So can I just ask the boring question every hero wants to hear from the villain?’’ Stiles asks, expression not betraying the fear Derek smells on him. Theobald laughs.

 

‘’Ah, as to why am I doing this?’’ The sorcerer shrugs. ‘’Because I can. And I want to.’’

 

Neither of those are lies. Derek nudges Stiles hand to let him know. Since half truths are Stiles’ forte, the man knows Theobald isn’t telling them everything. ‘’That’s not really an answer is it? Doing this kind of shit for shit’s and giggles? You know you’re wanted in multiple states for all sorts of fun crimes. There are even records of you in other countries. I mean, sure, murdering people in cold blood for your own amusement is one column for a psychopath, but you’re really not one, are you?’’

 

''No, I'm not,'' Theobald says, ''I'm just very good at getting the things I desire. Always have been.''

 

''Why did you kill the victims? What purpose did their deaths serve to fulfill your _desire_?'' Stiles spits.

 

Theobald gives Stiles a good onceover. ‘’Do you know how old I am?’’

 

Making a face, Stiles says, ‘’Old enough to be my grandfather like, twice.’’

 

The sorcerer laughs. ‘’A lot older than that. I’ve been searching the answer for immortality for a couple of centuries. Even found the Fountain of Youth. A black magic user, sadly, cannot enter, no matter how powerful one is. So far the closest I’ve come to immortality has been a ritual I have to complete every twenty years. And that, dear child, requires a lot of blood and fear and bones.’’

 

‘’Told you he was calculative bastard,’’ Stiles mutters under his breath. Derek huffs.

 

‘’I’ve also have people try to stop me before. You are far from the first one. And I don’t think you’re going to be the last one either. Alpha.’’

 

Scott goes straight, blazing red eyes focusing their gaze on Theobald. The sorcerer grins, nasty and tad manic, and says with feral glee, ‘’Kill them.’’

 

Stiles gives a put upon sigh. ‘’Really? That’s like, the most cliched thing you can do. Make my best bro try and kill me? What do you want me to do? Kiss him? Plead him to recognize me and to not do this?’’ He takes his baseball bat from the leather strap on his back and readies himself.

 

‘’Fuck that. Derek, stay back.’’

 

Derek limps a couple steps back. His attention is elsewhere anyway. He can see the sheriff on the other side of the clearing, tucked against a tree with his gun in hand. Parrish is flanked a couple feet away from him, stripped to nothing but his boxers. Readying himself for flames.

 

Scott howls, enraged, when the first hit of Stiles’ bat strikes him on the chest. The wolf’s skin blisters immediately, leaving stripes of red and purple behind. The pack responds to the Alpha like puppets. They spring to action, growling and posturing as they gather near Scott. Derek’s eyes flare blue when Scott roars, canines long and sharp and wicked, and takes a step towards the Alpha.

 

‘’There we go,’’ he hears Theobald chuckle. ‘’Even the last of the unruly puppies fall in line when the Alpha roars. It’s useless to struggle.’’

 

It clicks then, that the sorcerer thinks that Derek belongs to the McCall pack, that he’s affected by Scott’s call. Probably the old man thinks that all werewolves in the same precinct belong to the same pack, like they aren’t their human side with their emotions and conflicts at all. It’s hard to fight prejudice. Not two hundred years ago that assumption would have been accurate.

 

Stiles seems to come to the same conclusion, sharing a glance with Derek. They can let Theobald think that, if the pack won’t attack Derek. Lure him into false sense of security that Derek is as under Scott’s control as everyone else, get him close to the sorcerer. They have to think of a distraction, to get everyone else immersed in taking Stiles down . . .

 

_The sheriff._

 

When Scott lets out another howl of pain as the concentrated mistletoe digs deep into his skin with every blow of Stiles’ bat, Derek readies himself. Awkwardly, careful of his leg, he bares his teeth to Stiles and snaps his fangs at the man, before freezing exaggeratedly, directing his perked ears towards the bushes. He slowly turns his head, pretending to notice only now the sounds of intruders. He rumbles, sharply barking towards the pack and then slowly prowling towards the sheriff, keeping his body low, gritting his teeth against a pained whine as his bum leg trembles.

 

He prays that John’s gun is loaded with normal bullets instead of wolfsbane ones.

 

‘’Derek, no!’’

 

Ignoring Stiles’ plea, Derek focuses on his mock attack. They need this to work. John pales slightly when he sees Derek, full in his wolf form, eyes bright blue, saliva dripping off the side of his mouth as he growls. The older Stilinski’s hand is steady where he holds his weapon though, and he aims it with careful control towards Derek.

 

‘’Take one step closer, son,’’ the man warns lowly, ‘’And you’ll regret it.’’

 

Theobald, having followed Derek’s actions like he predicted the sorcerer to, makes a jovial expression when he sees who’s hiding behind the tree bark.

 

‘’Ah, the town’s very own sheriff. I imagine you’d be quite surprised at the sight presented in front of you but. . . Seeing as you’re here, I doubt you’d be as calm as you are if this was the first time you’ve seen a monster.’’

 

‘’I assure you,’’ John replies, gun still pointed towards Derek, ‘’I know exactly what I’m dealing with. I’ve seen monsters far more terrifying than the ones in front of me now. And I would consider softening the charges you’re going to be slapped with if you let my son’s best friend out of your thrall, but alas. I know you won’t. So I reckon we’re at a stalemate.’’

 

Theobald scoffs. ‘’Hardly. You’re but two humans with questionable weapons, whereas I have the control of a werewolf pack where one wolf is even able to transform fully. . . So I’d say I have a bit of a predominance here.’’ The man flicks a wrist and Liam and Kira turn their gazes eerily in synch towards Derek and the sheriff.

 

‘’This is but a child’s play to me. A convenient play off where, at the end of the day, I’ll be gaining fresh parts for my ritual and you’ll be mercifully dead.’’

 

John sidesteps closer to Theobald, the sheriff’s eyes glancing over at his son where Stiles is battling away with furious swings of his bat, echoed by as equally furious howls. Derek snaps at his jaws towards the human, and John’s steely gaze focuses back on him.

 

‘’Derek. Don’t.’’

 

Derek growls in response, taking a step to the left, where John was standing a little while ago, subtly herding him towards the sorcerer. The man’s eyes narrow, not quite understanding what Derek is trying to get him to do, but trusts him enough that his heartbeat has stayed steady apart from the initial fright Derek gave him.

 

Huh.

 

‘’There’s no reasoning with a beast,’’ Theobald sighs. ‘’I know from experience. Once the weres find that part of themselves, transitioning to a full shift wolf, they lose all of their humanity. There’s no human left to negotiate with.’’

 

‘’Derek! Stay the fuck away from my dad!’’

 

Derek cocks his ear towards Stiles but remains in position. Theobald is at least a good fifteen feet away. He needs to get a lot closer than this in order to either rip the sorcerer’s throat off or, should that fail, at least get the amulet controlling Scott. He ups his growl a couple decibel.

 

‘’Derek!’’ Stiles shouts, grunting with the effort of landing another hard hit. ‘’I swear to God, if you harm my dad I will find you, and I will _skin_ you, you hear me?’’

 

 _Liar_ , Derek thinks. Even if he cannot differentiate heartbeats with so many people in near vicinity, he can, for some reason, always focus on Stiles’ heart, the way the rhythm lowers and falters, then gallops.

 

The only reason a wolf could focus on a single person and their body from afar and in a crowd, would be because they share a heartbond. His mother’s was his father, and Peter’s was his wife, Olivia. A wolf can have two to three heartbonds in their life, but only if they survive the death or separation of the first one they swore to the moon to protect. It doesn’t make sense that Stiles would be -

 

Stiles would deserve better than Derek. It wouldn’t be fair of the universe to stuck Stiles with someone as broken as Derek. There must be another reason why he can - It just wouldn’t be fair.

 

He bends his forelegs, using the momentum of hesitation John has when he hears his son, and jumps. The sheriff jerks backwards, stumbling, dodging Derek’s jaws by mere inches.

 

 _‘’Dad_!’’

 

John falls awkwardly on his back, and Derek lands a couple feet away from him, crouching for another attack. The gun stays on John’s hand and he fires, two shots, both missing the mark by far. Derek senses Kira coming closer, electricity raising the hairs on his back as it travels through the ground. He barely has time to react to her when Stiles sees her drawing closer.

 

Stiles grunts, grabbing a rubber gun from the bag on his back. Instead of rubber balls though, Stiles fires a string of magnetic beads coated with aluminum that are attached with a cord. They wrap around Kira, the force of the shot forcing her down, creating a small Faraday Cage, all the wandering electricity vanishing as her powers are contained within the round orbs.

 

Derek takes a couple inconspicuous steps towards Theobald. The sorcerer is focused on Stiles and Kira and takes no notice. There are only eight feet between them. He’s so close he can smell the putrid scent of decay on the man.

 

Kira screams, frustrated, but unharmed. They’d perfected the weapon long ago when it became apparent that strong feelings sometimes have explosive consequences around her. When Derek steals a quick glance towards Stiles, he sees the cocky smirk on his face. Kira would hear about this for a long time.

 

Theobald tsks. ‘’I admit you’ve got a couple nice tricks under your sleeve. But not enough to impress me, really.’’ He snaps his fingers, directing his eyes towards Derek, and seems to anticipate a reaction.

 

Derek cringes internally. They are so going to get caught on their con sooner rather than later. Toughing it out, he stops his growling and perks his ears towards the sorcerer. Theobald smirks.

 

‘’Kill the human.’’

 

Derek bares his teeth, prowling forward, jaw hanging open and ready towards the sheriff. This time John’s heart starts beating frantically and he actually readies his gun. Apologizing in his mind, he crouches his forelegs again, taking a second to wiggle himself into place, and then leaps.

 

Two things happen at the same time. As Derek jumps, letting out an enraged howl, John fires his gun and shoots Derek on his shoulder, slightly closer to his neck than he’s comfortable with. Derek grunts in pain, but the force of the shot doesn’t slow his momentum as he flies over the sheriff and jumps onto Theobald instead.

 

In the same moment, Parrish charges from the shadows, engulfing himself in flames as he runs closer.

 

Theobald doesn’t have time to do anything but gasp when Derek’s teeth sink into his side. He rips into the flesh, blood coating his front as he savages the sorcerer’s ribs, bone and guts crunching under his mauling. Screaming, Theobald punches Derek’s head and jaw, trying to get him to let go.

 

Derek doesn’t. He bites harder, digging deeper into the man’s side. The sorcerer bangs his fists ruthlessly for a moment, desperate, until deciding that with his physical strength, he’s no match for a werewolf. Derek has three seconds to brace himself when Theobald grabs his skull and whispers three unfamiliar words, and then Derek is wrenched off of the sorcerer and thrown against the outer wall of the old Hale house, the rotten boards giving in as he hurls through them.

 

Pieces of wood follow his landing, splintering and flying all over, the crash echoing in the almost empty house.

 

It takes him a while to gather his bearings. His ears ring, lungs barely gasping for breath. He feels the poison of the wolfsbane bullets seeping into his system, knows the drag of it in his veins. His skull has cracked, though it’s powering through, healing the vital part of his body. His teeth had split too. He can taste both his own blood in his mouth, as he does the grimy blood of Theobald.

 

He gags, only to have his whole body convulse in agony.

 

There’s a slight chance that he cannot get up on his own. He aches, _everywhere_. It’s oddly quiet with only the ringing in his ears, the sounds of the ugly battle not carrying to him.

 

He blinks stupidly. The sun fills the room with light, now even more so where Derek had crashed through the wall, opening a hole in it. There are wolfsbane flowers growing against the floors, crawling towards the ceiling. Beautiful purple sea of ghosts spreading all over the house. He wonders if this is where his little brother lay when he died. If the flora has been born from the ashes of him.

 

He swallows a bile. Giving himself two minutes to heal, he tries to concentrate on breathing, filling his lungs with air instead of the black fluid of the poison trying to drown him. He can’t let Stiles fight this battle alone. He has to get back up, get out there and do _something_. What if John got hurt? Did Theobald get to him? What about Stiles and Parrish?

 

He pants harshly, gritting his broken teeth as he tries to get up. His muscles scream in painful protest, quivering, unable to carry his weight. He crashes back down.

 

A familiar pair of feet land softly near him, entering from the window. Derek goes slack with relief.

 

Lupita.

 

She answered his call after all.

 

The kelpie says something, though Derek can’t hear the words. Her mouth moves, forming vowels and sounds and words and he tries so hard to understand what she’s trying to tell, but he can’t. He can only pant with labored breaths, eyes trying to focus on her even if she seems all blurry to him.

 

The poison inches closer to his heart.

 

She makes an apologetic face and forms a small bubble of liquid in her hand. He glances at it, dazed, and nods. Gently, she forces the bubble against Derek’s fur, his neck, plunging it inside his system. He begins to feel numb almost immediately, detached from his body. There’s a cool peck placed on his snout, and then she’s gone.

 

Derek gurgles, black goo dripping from his mouth and nose and wounds, pooling onto the cracked floorboards.

 

He goes under.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_‘’. . . burn . . .. . . ashes, Jesus, just . . .’’_

_‘’. . won’t . .’’_

_‘’. . .not that . . . take so . . .’’_

_‘’. . . fool me . . .. . . . he’s . . too close. . .’’_

 

Derek arches, feeling the floorboards underneath. Instead of fur, his shift has been forced down while unconscious, his skin feeling raw where it heals. He can smell the burnt wolfsbane.

 

‘’Whoah, big guy, take it easy. I got you, I got you.’’

 

Stiles’ sure hands support his head, pillowed what Derek assumes is his lap, deft fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead. His first thought is ‘ _Thank God Stiles is okay_ ,’ and then ‘ _Oh God, everything hurts.’_ He’s fairly certain it’s Stiles’ jacket that’s covering his lower half, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes to check. He feels bruised enough to give himself a moment to just lay there. Lupita’s venom isn’t numbing him anymore. He must’ve been out for at least a good thirty minutes for that to happen.

 

His lungs expand. Deflate. Expand. Deflate. The air wheezes through his throat, his nose. The black goo is gone. His heart beats in frantic rhythm with his gasps and he’s _alive_.

 

‘’The poison should be all extracted,’’ Lupita says from somewhere close. ‘’He has two broken ribs. I wouldn’t recommend moving him until those have healed. As for his sku - ‘’

 

An angry scream echoes through the house and Derek tastes the sulfur of fury that rises in Stiles’ scent. ‘’Could someone shut him the hell up?’’ The man spits, and Derek has to blink his eyes open.

 

Because Theobald is alive? Why?

 

‘’Yeah, I’m . . I’m on it, dude,’’ Scott says awkwardly, the retreating footsteps leading outside. It takes a minute of outraged shouting before there’s a loud protest from the sorcerer, Scott ripping a piece of tape, and then silence.

 

Lupita looks away from the doorway Scott had disappeared to and continues, ‘’Derek’s skull is also healing itself still. If I may, I could offer his system a boost to quicken the cell’s dividing and multiplying process.’’

 

Derek stares blearily up at the underside of Stiles’ chin as he nods to the kelpie. ‘’What do you need?’’

 

‘’Water and a handful yarrow.’’

 

‘’I’ve got it, Queen,’’ a stranger says, making Derek realize that not only is the pack here, but the house has filled with Lupita’s pod too. He turns his head to see the newcomers and sees at least fifteen blue humanoids sitting around the dilapidated living room. Everyone else looks okay except for the McCall wolves who are all covered at least on some parts in blood.

 

‘’Oh,’’ Stiles says softly, noticing the movement, gentle fingers travelling to Derek’s scruff. He looks back up at the man and sees Stiles give a small nod. ‘’Hey. You in the land of living?’’

 

Derek shakes his head a little, making Stiles hold a lopsided grin. ‘’Yeah, I wouldn’t be either if I were you. We’ll get you patched up enough to move you back to your apartment, okay?’’

 

Derek swallows a couple times before managing a hoarse, ‘’What about Theobald?’’

 

Stiles’ expression darkens considerably. ‘’Me and dad have a couple questions about his victims before we can. . . Decide. . . What his fate is. It’s why I couldn't just blast him off of the face of planet.’’

 

Fairly certain in the outcome, Derek knows neither Stiles or Lupita will allow Theobald to live. Even the sheriff might be seesawing between the fine line of his law abiding morals. Then again, Stiles could easily hoist the sorcerer to the Supernatural federal officials that have been looking for the man and his father wouldn’t even know what end fate Theobald would face. Which would, knowing from their past interactions, be a death penalty.

 

‘’Dude’s furious. And also massively bleeding, but you know, as long as we get the information from him, I really don’t care whether he bleeds to death or not. Also we wanted to make sure you were okay first. Theobald can wait.’’

 

There’s a quiet murmur of agreement going around. Derek focuses on the familiar scents, the warm power that Stiles radiates, the safety net he’s created around the preserve. Rather sluggishly, he asks, ‘’Lydia?’’ He’s been wondering where she had disappeared to.

 

Lydia wouldn’t have been forced under the thrall of Scott’s call. As a banshee, she’s immune to all of that. But she had not been in the house or answering any calls. Derek had been worried then, and Stiles’ hadn’t had an answer either.

 

Stiles snorts though, so Derek relaxes. ‘’Lydia’s fine. You saw the state Parrish was in, right?’’

 

Derek nods.

 

‘’Yeah, well, it wasn’t because he was readying himself for a battle. He and Lydia had been in a. . . Rather compromising position when dad found them in the back of the cruiser. Dad in turn was following Liam who had started acting strange halfway through the morning and suddenly burst out of the station to wander God knows where without his shoes on.’’

 

Quirking a brow in question, Stiles gives him a smirk. ‘’Apparently dad had taken Liam with him to work because the kid couldn't sleep and I’m not a jobless kid lazily parading the town anymore, so there’s nobody to sort out the speeding tickets. Anyway, dad found Lydia and Parrish and decided to just let them sort themselves out in the back while he calmly followed our littlest wolf. Dad had tried to call me earlier when we were sleeping, but my phone had been on silent so neither of us woke up to it.’’

 

Liam makes  a sound of protest from where he’s leeching Derek’s pain. ‘’I’m not the littlest!’’

 

Stiles waves his concerns away. ‘’Youngest then. The point is, everyone is fine, if a little worse for  the wear.’’ He sighs. ‘’All fine, except for you. Your plan was, hm, planned so-so, well executed, fooled my dad at least a good thirty percent and ended up snatching our prime evil villain right where it hurts, distracting him enough for me to get close and destroy that fucking amulet. So, essentially saving the day.’’

 

‘’I wasn’t fooled in the least,’’ John says, entering the room. Trailing behind him is one of the kelpies, carrying an armful of yarrow. ''Lydia is safe, Derek. I didn't even bring her all the way out here, she's in town getting Melissa and bringing two cars with them.''

 

‘’You _shot_ him, dad. Almost right where his neck starts. Just two inches to the left and you probably would’ve hit an artery.’’

 

Liam makes space for both Lupita and the kelpie carrying the flowers, releasing Derek’s wrist.

 

‘’Well, maybe I was a little fooled. You, son,’’ John directs his words to Derek, ‘’Were very believable with your glowing eyes and the saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth and overall very B-class movie acting. I was very impressed.’’

 

Stiles snorts. ‘’We could all tell you were freaked out. Don’t worry dad, we’ve all been fooled by his rough demeanor once. You get used to it.’’

 

Taking the flowers, Lupita starts picking only the buds and blooms, leaving culms on the floor. She forms a water bubble, holding it between her hands as one of her pod members starts dipping the yarrows in. Derek lets the conversation flow over him, not really interested in hearing what Stiles thought of him _before_.

 

It’s an interesting process. Half of the armful of flowers disappear into the water bubble, slowly circling inside, the delicate petals getting shredded with every whirlpool of new dip of flowers. The clear liquid turns gradually yellow.

 

‘’I’m sorry, wolf,’’ one of the kelpie’s says, taking half of the bubble of water from Lupita’s hands into her own. ‘’But can you drink this?’’

 

Derek nods, opening his mouth. Stiles’ hands come down to gently cover his throat. The kelpie offers the water, holding it delicately in her hands. When it hits Derek’s lips, side of the jelly-looking bubble turns into liquid, sliding down his mouth, down his throat, and he swallows. It’s surprisingly tasteless. He’d figured it would at least hold the bitter taste of the flower and grass, maybe.

 

As he drinks, he stares directly into Stiles’ eyes. They start glowing with the powers of the fox, before his pupils dial enough that his usual bright brown gets completely swallowed by the black. Warmth seeps into his neck, right where Stiles’ cool hands touch his skin. It’s a slightly odd feeling, having been used to Stiles’ icy body temperature.

The warmth follows down to his shoulders, to his chest, to the pit of his belly, the bends of his knees and the tip of his toes. His heartbeat slows down, his lungs expand and deflate with each deep breath. Eyes fluttering closed, his muscles go lax, focus directing to Stiles’ steady breaths, the small twitches of his fingers.

 

He has a small hunch of what’s happening, what Stiles is doing. Stiles, as a chaos demon shouldn't be able to, _hasn't_ been able to heal anyone before, and the reason why he can do it _now_ makes his heart prickle with guilt, but it feels good. Someone makes a quiet, surprised sound. It sounds like Lupita. She doesn’t say anything though, doesn’t stop Stiles.

 

The pain fades as Stiles’ powers start healing him, gently pulling the throb and ache and soreness and hurt away. He feels it. His bones crafting themselves into place, skin knitting itself closed.

 

‘’Drink,’’ a faraway voice says, and Derek opens his mouth again, unsure when he even closed it, and welcomes to cool water in. Every swallow is followed by Stiles’ finger barely caressing his adam’s apple, encouraging him to take more.

 

He does.

 

After awhile, he blinks his eyes back open. Stiles is staring down at him, eyes back to his own hue, gazing with deep rooted worry in them.  ‘’Hey,’’ he whispers.

 

Derek wants to answer, finds the words at the tip of his tongue, but gives out a slow exhale instead. He rubs a hand down his face and nods, feeling a little loopy.

 

‘’We don’t have any spare clothes to dress you with. Think you can shift back to your wolf form?’’ Stiles asks after a moment, letting Derek grab his bearings in peace.

 

He sits up, slowly, bracing himself for the inevitable wall of pain, but finds none. His muscles are soft, like they are after a long, hot bath, relaxed and decidedly non-achy. Even his bum leg is facing none of the difficulties it normally offers. Stiles’ hands come to support his back as he moves, rubbing up and down his spine a couple times.

 

‘’Yeah,’’ he rasps out, and immediately shifts. The jacket he had been covered with, which he was right, it was Stiles’, drops to the floor as fur overtakes his human skin, changing his shape. He stands up and stretches, basking in the luxurious feeling when his bones snap into place.

 

Stiles follows suit standing up, wiping the knees of his jeans and his hands from the dirt. Blood he can’t do much about. ‘’Well,’’ Stiles hedges, ‘’I have no idea what just happened, but uh, Derek seems to be better now. No gaping wounds or cracked ribs or bullets too near his heart, so uh. I guess we’re good?’’

 

Lupita makes eye contact with Derek for an intense moment. He can’t look away, to betray weakness, so he stares back, unflinching, as Lupita seems to come to her own conclusions. She tilts her head knowingly, before breaking eye contact. She leads her troops outside and the pack follows somberly.

 

The sky has started gathering rain clouds low in the air, humid in a way that whispers the promise of a thunder.

 

‘’Whelp,’’ Stiles says, looking at the trussed up sorcerer guarded by wolves. ‘’I guess we gotta get you to Deaton’s to hear what you’ve got to say for yourself. Since nobody has yet to run for your rescue, I assume you’ve been either working alone this whole time, or maybe dissected your allies for your own gain. Either way, we’re taking you to the FBI for the supes.’’

 

Theobalds eyes go round with fear. Stiles looks at him coldly. ‘’Yeah. Not so high and mighty now, are you?’’

 

He sighs, and marches over to Scott. Melissa and Lydia are rounding onto the eutrophicated yard, Lydia's small prius coughing in protest. Stiles gives out orders to the pack to keep them organized, packing them inside the patrol car where the sorcerer is squeezed in the middle. Derek watches from the side, tensing when he feels Lupita slide to stand next to him.

 

‘’He’s a good man, your fox,’’ she says lowly. Derek chances a glance but doesn’t respond. He’s thankful for the wolf form for keeping his mouth tightly shut.

 

‘’I can see the link between you two. The hooks and the thread is there, but neither of you is pulling it towards one another. You know as well as I that no fox can withdraw pain, unless bonded with a wolf.’’ She’s quiet for a moment before adding, ‘’Is it fear, I wonder? That keeps you from taking a chance?’’

 

Derek huffs, his head drooping a little.

 

‘’Ah,’’ Lupita says, ‘’I see. You think your fox deserves a better mate for himself. You think what you have to offer isn’t good enough.’’

 

Derek cringes. The Queen is not exactly wrong. He doesn’t have anything to offer to Stiles, even if he did chance it, presenting his heart and body fully to their mate, Derek isn't worth much. Stiles is stronger than him in every aspect. He may be morally ambiguous perhaps, but to Derek who has lived almost his whole life with darkness, Stiles feels like the brightly lit beacon that’s calling him, guiding him to safety.

 

Derek is afraid of smothering that light.

 

‘’Has he not been there for you?’’ Lupita asks gently. ‘’Has he not stood by you, even in the most difficult of times when you could barely walk and hogged anger like it was the only thing anchoring you? Have you not stood by him when he struggled? Held him close when the demon nearly swallowed him whole? Given him a part of your core, of who you are, even when the relationship between the two of you hadn’t proceeded further than allies?’’

 

The Queen sighs, stroking a hand through the fur of his back. ‘’Love is about sacrifices. You have given a fair share of those in your lifetime. Let someone else take care of you for once. Don’t push yourself down with your doubts and fears. The fox’s heartbeat is strong and he’s more than capable of handling the world when you cannot, and you would shoulder the same weight for him, should he need it.’’

 

She stands up, placing one last kiss on his snout. ‘’And remember, silly child, that love doesn't always have to be beautiful. Doesn't have to be grand gestures or declarations to the world,’’ she says, letting her body mold itself into her ethereal form, ready to melt into the drops of water in the ground, ‘’After all, a ragged wolf’s rose is a wild lupine.’’

 

Then she disappears, her pod following suit. Stiles looks confused for a moment when one of the helping kelpies just melts down and vanishes, but shakes his head. He jogs over to Derek a moment later.

 

‘’I never knew how kelpies actually survived on dry land, but _damn_. That’s some real avatar shit. Like, they literally used the water inside the ground and the nature to travel back to their pond?’’ He grins, gentle fingers coming to brush the fur on Derek’s head, rubbing his ears.

 

‘’Come on, big guy. Let’s get home.’’

 

 

 

 

The rain is pouring down heavily by the time they actually manage to drag themselves from Deaton’s clinic. Stiles had sent his dad back to work since his help wasn’t needed in the interrogation process, over half of the pack members opting the same.

 

 

It was only once in the druid protected circle that Theobald really understood that he couldn’t just weasel himself out of the situation. He sang like a bird when Deaton offered to merely strip him from his magic instead of outright killing him, if he revealed the locations of the people he’d killed over the years.

 

Derek had to physically restrain Stiles from punching Deaton in the face though for leaving Scott alone that night. The vet had been utterly unconcerned of Stiles’ justified outrage and calmly said that he couldn’t have gone with Scott because he knew Theobald had been close, and he couldn’t, under the laws of his druid council, interfere with magic users in order to ensure the balance.

 

Nobody batted an eyelash at Derek standing in the middle of the clinic buck naked, holding Stiles back as much as he could while the man fumed and cussed and hissed profanities. Scott kept apologizing for Stiles’ behaviour, which only incensed him more.

 

There had been a long silence after Deaton had left the room for a moment to check on his real patients, when Scott had winced as he shifted in his seat. ‘’Dude,’’ he said, ‘’You didn’t have to hit us so hard, you know? Why didn’t you just use your. . .’’ he made a vague gesture towards Stiles’, well, everything.

 

Stiles had raised an eyebrow. ‘’If I had done that, and Theobald would’ve had allies in sniper positions, what do you think would have had happened?’’ Which ended that conversation pretty quick.

 

It had taken the better part of four hours for the Supernatural Investigators to grace their presence in Beacon Hills. The heavily armed women took one look at the sickeningly long list where Scott had written down the locations and names of Theobald’s victims and told Stiles that, since on his territory, Stiles could do whatever he desired with the man.

 

Scott had looked confused, no doubt wondering why the officers would consort Stiles of all people, but apparently had decided to sit in the sidelines for now. He had been, after all, beaten pretty bloody by Stiles and his bat, and he was clearly exhausted.

 

‘’You’ll act as witnesses, right?’’ Stiles had asked the two officers, who had nodded. Deaton had opened his mouth to explain the ritual of stripping one’s magic away, only to be cut off with Stiles rudely slashing Deaton’s wards that held Theobald in and marched right over to the sorcerer.

 

Derek gave a sigh of relief when Stiles grabbed Theobald’s neck, forcing him to bare his throat, and drew and invisible mark on the man’s skin. Within seconds, Theobald’s eyes rolled back, burst of magic flashing through the room before the sorcerer’s body withered away to ashes.

 

The officers had nodded in unison, taken the list of names and locations, and then handed a wad of money in Stiles’ hand before departing. It had been a rather surreal experience, and Derek is still not 100 percent sure if it really happened, or did he imagine all of it.

 

 

 

During their trip back to Derek’s apartment, the aches and pains Stiles had managed to take from him started gradually turning back. By the time they hit the parking lot, Derek regretted every decision he had made today. But he could barely focus on his own hurt when the smell of Stiles’ emotions almost choked him.

 

He didn’t say anything, let Stiles help him to the apartment, opening doors that his paws were unable to do and getting clothes for him when he stayed in the living room to shift. The rain was pelting down hard now, drowning away Stiles’ heartbeat.

 

The man comes back, offering Derek his white t-shirt and some grey pants. Derek forgoes his socks since Stiles didn’t seem bring any and settles in front of the biggest window nook, something he built himself so it’s cocooned by soft pillows. Stiles follows suit, chucking his own clothes away before scampering into Derek’s softest maroon t-shirt and jeans.

 

After a moment of hesitation, he comes to gingerly sit beside Derek in the nook.

 

‘’Are you alright?’’ Derek asks, subtly sniffing the chemosignals. There’s fear, disgust, hatred, twisted with the sour scent of guilt.

Stiles shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. Heaving a small sigh, Derek positions himself so his back is faced with Stiles’ side, pulling his knees up. Then he waits.

 

Together they breathe in tandem, listening to the pitter patter of the rain hitting the window pane, the grandfather clock Stiles had dragged in one afternoon ticking in the far corner of the room, the hum of electronics, the muffled sounds of a television show coming from floor above them.

 

After what feels like an eternity, Stiles shifts a little, mimicking Derek’s position. They sit there, back to back, focusing on slow inhales and slower exhales.

 

At last, Stiles cracks. ‘’My dad and Scott just don’t get it.’’

 

Derek hums. ‘’What don’t they get?’’

 

Feeling Stiles shift in place, he imagines the man running his hands against his face, or playing with the hem of his shirt. Derek knows though, that Stiles is better at talking about the difficult stuff if he doesn’t have to look anyone in the eyes.

 

‘’They always think there’s a way to save someone. To rehabilitate or imprison a person that has committed crimes against humans and weres alike. That no matter what, there’s always something _good_ about a person.’’

 

He contemplates this for a moment. ‘’And you don’t?’’

 

Stiles snorts. ‘’Of course I don’t. And you don’t either. I’d even say over half of Americans would agree with us. So why - ‘’ he makes a frustrated sound. Derek knows now where this aggressive self loathing comes from.

 

After Stiles had stripped Theobald from his magic, ripping away the only thing keeping his centuries old body alive, essentially killing him, Scott had looked at Stiles with disappointment. With fear too. Neither Scott nor Sheriff Stilinski are completely confident that the Nogitsune is locked away for good. They fear that the minute Stiles shows any signs of what they consider ‘evil’, that Stiles has been repossessed.

 

If it were anyone else, Stiles could take it. He could joke about it, play it up and not be bothered about the kind of comments Scott and John sometimes make. ‘Stiles wouldn’t condone murder’ or ‘Stiles wouldn't have jumped to killing an enemy before exploiting other factors of containing and imprisoning a criminal’ or ‘Are you sure this is Stiles and not the - Not the thing inside him doing this?’.

 

He says, ‘’I think you did the right thing today. With Theobald.’’

 

‘’I know that. It _was_ the right choice. Theobald has been living for centuries murdering people right and left, using them to boost his own power, to prolong his own life. Of fucking course killing him was the right option. God knows how many deaths he perpetrated in total. I bet there are hundreds of closed cases where the body nor the killer has been found. And I bet, if we could, if we followed Theobald’s trail of where he’s lived throughout his long, selfish life, we’d have piles of matching cold cases. He _deserved_ to die. He should’ve died years ago, before he even trampled with black magic.’’

 

‘’But your father and Scott don’t agree.’’

 

Stiles leans forward, burying his face in his hands. ‘’No,’’ he says, quietly. ‘’They still think it’s the Nogitsune. That, that the demon left darkness in me, that there are still traces of his evil that forge my thoughts and actions. Like I wouldn't be capable of taking a life if I had to.’’

 

He sniffles, clearly trying not to, but Derek can smell the faint smell of his unshed salty tears. ‘’But I have. I’ve killed in self defense. I thought pretty fucking many people deserved to die. I’m not as _good_ or innocent as they think I am. If killing a threat means protecting my family, my pack, then I’d gladly do it without remorse.’’

 

‘’I know,’’ Derek agrees softly.

 

‘’God, it just- It _hurts_ when they look at me like that. Like I’m broken, or, or a completely different person. I’m still _me_ , I’ve always _been_ me, Nogitsune or no Nogitsune. I’ve always thought myself capable of protecting my family from any threat, regardless of how I achieve that outcome. Fuck, I pretty gleefully threw molotov cocktails towards your uncle with the intent of killing him. I only half-joked when I suggested murdering Jackson. My world is not as black and white as my dad’s or Scott’s.’’

 

‘’I know.’’

 

‘’And, and like today, when dad asked me about what would happen to Theobald and I said I wasn’t sure, he looked at me with this look of resignation. He said, _‘Just don’t do anything you’ll regret, son,’_ and that fucking - It _hurt_.’’

 

‘’I know.’’

 

‘’No, you _don’t_ ,’’ Stiles snaps. ‘’You _don’t_ know because your dad never looked at you with disgust, like you aren’t even his son anymore because your hands are soiled in blood and - ‘’

 

Derek flinches, just a fraction, and Stiles immediately deflates. ‘’I’m sorry,’’ he apologizes. ‘’I didn’t mean - I don’t -’’

 

Sighing, Derek turns around. ‘’If there’s something I understand Stiles,’’ he says quietly, ‘’it’s the feeling of being judged for everything I do with the fear of being labeled as someone untrustworthy, a thug, a murderer, the pariah of Beacon Hills. For not being in control of your own body because of someone using it.’’

 

He urges Stiles to turn around and clamber into his lap. Derek likes the reassurance of Stiles' weight on top of him, just as much Stiles likes the security of Derek's arms wrapped around his frame. ‘’I get it. I _get_ that fierce need of wanting to protect the little you have left. I understand it in a very conscious and very primal level. I _know_ what it’s like being an outsider with nobody on my side.’’

 

The front of Derek’s shirt dampens, but he pays it no mind. He wants to protect Stiles like Stiles has protected him. Wants his own hands to be tools of kindness, and not tools of cruelty. Because, he realizes then, his love for Stiles runs deep rooted and relentless. It’s soft and fragile, yet strong and sturdy. Filling every line of his soul, stitching itself permanently into his heart.

 

He doesn’t know when exactly Stiles fit himself into the cracks that make Derek whole. Carved himself a place and let things grow around him, rather than shackle him down. He takes a shuddering breath.

 

‘’I know the need to protect, and all the same, be protected in return.’’

 

Stiles hugs him tightly, sniffing and wiping away the tears and snot onto Derek’s front. ‘’I know,’’ Stiles agrees, the guilt and disappointment diluting, mixing with the scent of love and affection so untamed it feels like a wild animal. He looks down at his lap for a minute, quiet.

 

‘’You know I love you right?’’ Stiles says softly against his shirt. ‘’I love you so much, you don’t even know.’’

 

Derek freezes. That - That is not something Derek saw coming. Something thick forms into his throat and he has to swallow a couple times to unlodge it. ‘’You love me?’’ he asks gingerly. Stiles nods and squeezes Derek tighter.

 

‘’So much,’’ Stiles whispers. ‘’And I understand if you’re not ready for any kind of relationship yet. With me or with anyone else. But I just- I just wanted to tell you that. Because it. . . It hurt me a lot. To not say it out loud.’’

 

He sighs, going loose in Derek’s lap. ‘’And if I’m making you uncomfortable now, you can just tell me to buzz off and I’ll come back when you give me the green light. But know that I’m willing to wait, you know? For anything. Anything you want to give to me, I’ll take it.’’

 

Derek leans back, looking down at Stiles with wonder. Stiles will always be the braver of the two.

 

‘’I already am yours,’’ he murmurs without meaning to. Not that the statement rings any less true. He is Stiles’ where Stiles is his. This beautiful, strong man who holds so much power in his hands and only uses it to protect his family. This amazing person who can be calculative and cold blooded towards people he doesn’t know or care about, but sob his eyes out when he fears his father or his almost-brother hate him or are afraid of him.

 

Stiles pops his head off of Derek’s chest and looks at him with red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks. ‘’Really?’’ he breathes. ‘’Am I - Are you - Really?’’

 

Derek can’t help but nod in response. Stiles brings his hands that had been fisted in the back of Derek’s shirt to Derek’s face, reverently gazing at his expression, cupping his cheeks.

 

‘’I knew we were mates. When I got the fox’s powers, I could feel the budding thread. I could almost see it sometimes, at night, when we’d lay together and you’d sleep in deep slumber and I stayed awake to protect you.’’

 

‘’I remember,’’ Derek murmurs. The first three months after Derek getting his leg mauled, he had felt insecure in his own home. Unable to protect himself and having no pack to protecting his back either. He couldn’t sleep. It had been around the time Stiles had started coming over, having gotten worried when there had been no peep from Derek in long weeks, and freaking out when he saw Derek’s leg hadn’t been healing.

 

They’d discovered, some month later, that Derek could only fall into a deep sleep if there was someone staying awake for him. To look out for danger. It had been a struggle for both of them, Stiles having more sleepless nights than actual sleep and Derek furiously washing things that Stiles had touched, uncomfortable with the strange scent in his den.

 

Derek presses his nose into Stiles’ unruly hair and inhales. The scent of him is now a comfort, a reminder of a home that’s not a place.

 

‘’I’m sorry it took me so long to notice,’’ Derek says. Stiles shakes his head.

 

‘’You needed that. That time to heal. You have nothing to be sorry for.’’ Then he allows a small grin. ‘’Wolves mate for life, right? Or close to that anyway. So we have like, years to figure things out. I’ve compiled a huge file comparing different legends and lores of wereshifters and their companions. Did you know that kelpies can live longer than humans? And that, as humanoids, they mostly have polyamorous relationships, rather than staying monogamous. There’s actually a science behind that, and within their pod - ‘’

 

Derek shakes his head, amused, placing a finger in front of Stiles’ lips, even though he’s actually pretty interested in the kelpie information. He’s going to have to read all of that and then verify some things with Lupita if she’s up to it. Stiles quiets down, his huge eyes looking up as Derek’s lips turn up from the corners.

 

‘’Not mates,’’ he says.

 

‘’Huh?’’

 

‘’My mother. . . She used to call it heartbonds.’’

 

‘’Heartbonds?’’ Stiles asks, smiling when Derek looks back down.

 

‘’Heartbonds,’’ he confirms.

 

‘’I like the sound of that,’’ Stiles whispers, eyes looking down at Derek’s lips. He takes a deep breath, and Derek pretends he can’t hear it shake with nerves, even if he can. ‘’Can I . . . Can I kiss you?’’

 

‘’I - I - I don’t - ‘’ Derek stammers a little uncharacteristically, not wanting to disappoint Stiles but not sure if he - ‘’I’m not sure if I - It’s - ‘’

 

‘’Hey,’’ Stiles says warmly. ‘’Dude. Calm down.’’

 

Pursing his lips, Derek huffs, heart fluttering nervously in his chest. And not the good kind of nervous either.

 

Stiles taps gently at Derek’s cheek to make him refocus on him. ‘’I’m never going to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Or at least, I’ll try not to.’’ He makes a face. ‘’Okay, let’s try that again, I promise you that I will _never_ do anything you don’t _consent_ to. Okay?’’

 

‘’Yeah. Okay.’’

 

‘’So. . . Kissing is a no-no?’’

 

Derek looks away. ‘’I haven’t. . . Not since Braeden. I haven’t been with anyone in the past six years. And even then, with Jennifer. . . I don’t even remember half of the things we did. Braeden was just. . . Powerful. Strong. I needed someone like that, so I did what she wanted to, to get her to stay. I’m no good with relationships. I’m afraid - ‘’ _Of fucking things up with you and chasing you so far away you couldn’t even feel the heartbreak._

 

‘’Well, I’m not Jennifer. Or Braeden. I’m Stiles Stilinski. And I may push your buttons, anger you, frustrate you and make you do unpleasant things like the dishes - ‘’

 

‘’Only you think washing the dishes is unpleasant, Stiles.’’

 

‘’ - But I will never, ever force you or your body to things you don’t give prior agreement to. Period.’’

 

Derek gives a small, fond smile. ‘’I know.’’

 

Stiles drags his fingers through Derek’s scruff. ‘’So, are like, all kisses a no-no? If lips are out of the question, then what about forehead kisses? Cheeks? Hands? I’m open to _all_ kind of kisses.’’

 

Humming, Derek brings Stiles back to a hug, dislodging the man’s hands from his scruff. ‘’I think those are fine.’’

 

‘’Well, we can take things step by step and then discuss things when they occur. Capiche?’’

 

‘’Alright.’’

 

Stiles leans back to hug him more, squeezing tightly. Derek squeezes back, reveling in the touch. Stiles’ breath is slightly damp against Derek’s ear, but he doesn’t mind.

 

‘’So, are we like. . . Boyfriends now?’’

 

‘’Yeah,’’ Derek nods. ‘’Yeah, I - We could start with that. It sounds. . . Nice.’’

 

Stiles snorts. ‘’Nice. We finally get into a relationship with each other after years of pining and you call it _nice_.’’

 

Derek scowls. ‘’Well, what would you call it then, Mr. Dictionary?’’

 

Stiles opens his mouth to answer, probably something snarky and sarcastic, but he pauses, thinking. Then he says, ‘’Was that a compliment or a an insult with a hidden compliment?’’

 

He would give Stiles a flat look, but the man keeps his head stubbornly hidden against Derek’s neck. ‘’You can take it however you want,’’ he ends up saying.

 

‘’A compliment it is then,’’ Stiles says decisively. He stays quiet for a moment. ‘’Well. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty worn out. Do you say nay or yay to unhealthy take-out food, a warm bath and bed?’’

 

Derek agrees with the plan wholeheartedly. They stand up, Derek a little bit more difficulty as the pain seeps back into his joints, Stiles sharing his weight and offering Derek his cane. He wipes the small dried tear tracks on Stiles’ face away. Stiles blushes, beautiful red hue high up on his cheeks, and Derek decides to just once take a chance.

 

He steps closer and presses a soft kiss on one of Stiles’ red cheeks, making Stiles smile widely as he closes his eyes to just feel.

 

‘’Unfair,’’ Stiles whines, unable to hide his content, giddy scent. ‘’I wanna give kisses too.’’

 

‘’You’ll have your chance,’’ Derek says and watches as Stiles grumpily heads towards the bathroom. He manages to say loudly enough and fast enough, ‘’Use the lavender bath soap,’’ only for Stiles to holler back, ‘’I know what you like! I’m not a complete moron.’’

 

‘’Only a half-wit then,’’ Derek mutters, grabbing his phone and searching the kitchen for a take-out menu. As he’s compiling the different options, he takes a moment to just stop and breathe.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt this good. He knows they are going to face some difficulties in the future. But the knowledge that he gets to _keep_ Stiles, not just watch him grow more into the magnificent man he is today as his friend, but he gets to have him close. Love him. _Be his_. That whatever may come, he’s sure they’ll get past it.

 

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek and asks, ‘’Are neck kisses okay?’’

 

Derek nods and feels Stiles’ cool lips pressing against his nape. He sighs contently as Stiles peeks over his shoulder, his body flush against Derek’s.

 

‘’I want mango curry. With naan bread. And that weird white sauce thing.’’

 

Derek adds it to the list, leaning against the man’s hold, enjoying the warm feeling.

 

Yeah. Things are going to be fine. He and Stiles can take things slow, see where their stubborn heads bring them to, strong in the belief that their bond will hold.

 

Derek deserves good things. And Stiles?

 

Stiles is definitely something good.

 

 

 

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the super vague descriptions of the pack. I have no idea who are in the McCall pack 2.0. Whoops.
> 
> Also Kira Kira by Cynthia Kadohata is seriously one of my favorite books of all time, so here's me, shamelessly promoting reading it ;u;


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